Every Kingdom
by boxcat
Summary: ON INDEFINITE HIATUS. This is a Rose-and-Scorpius story—about how they fell in love, and all that. About the diagnosis that brought them together and the years that led to it. But there are other stories in here, too, about music and family and the strange truth that if we go on, life goes on. And it does. (UPDATES RESUME AUGUST 12th!)
1. Brave Mornings

_**Disclaimer: **JKR should probably sue me._

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**I.**

Rose Weasley didn't drink.

In the middle of fifth year when she caught her drunken boyfriend snogging a scantily clad Ravenclaw at a Quidditch victory party, she chucked her glass of firewhiskey at his head. Several days later, when her tears had dried up and she'd hexed his hair blinding fuchsia, she decided that the Hogwarts party scene was too bourgeoisie and mainstream for her anyway.

She opted instead for barefoot evenings spent outdoors, where the acoustics were awful but the sky was as pretty as the cute, curly-haired Hufflepuff boy playing guitar by the lake. She sipped herbal dragonfruit tea with likeminded, cultured individuals, and choked on French cigarettes—the thin, slim ones that she rolled herself and slipped between her reddened lips but never lit out of fear that the wrath of the entire Potter-Weasley clan would descend upon her.

She dyed her hair blonde and it looked horrid, dyed it brown and felt as if she wasn't getting enough attention, and spent twenty galleons at a salon returning it to its natural color.

She was a freckled, loud-mouthed jumble with a verbose vocabulary, but she fervently hoped that when you stepped back and took it all in, the view was rather different.

Scorpius Malfoy lived to drink.

He slammed down shots of Ogden's finest while his mates cheered him on, and choked on homegrown sophorous hemp that he smoked through the elegant, snake-shaped pipe he had procured at Borgin and Burke's. He liked racing brooms, wagering, and girls, in that order. He was running through life too brashly, too impulsively, and some days he woke up and wondered if it was all going too quickly, or if the next time he toked up would inadvertently be the last.

Hogwarts was a political incubator for Malfoy men, and he had vague, hazy plans to _be_ someone some day, but as it was he figured that if he got through school with mediocre marks, he could bum off his substantial family fortune until he decided to make something of himself. The Malfoy name had been dragged through the mud, but due to the buying power at the family's disposal, their political sway remained unscathed.

Rose Weasley liked metaphors almost as much as she liked quoting philosophers that she didn't entirely understand, and she thought there was something to be said for falling hopelessly in love with the son of your father's ridiculously-attractive-yet-tortured-and-sometimes-evil schoolyard enemy.

There was a time when she'd liked to think of the arc of fate curving neatly into a circle, tying her and Scorpius together.

Scorpius Malfoy didn't know what metaphors were.

He didn't want to fall in love. He liked to think of the future as being endless and unplotted; he reveled in the notion that _this was the youngest he'd ever be _and that _this very moment was the only moment there was. _It scared him that he had decades ahead of him, and that one day his hairline would recede like his father's, and wrinkles would crease his skin. In the back of his mind, there lurked the even scarier thought that he never _truly_ planned on being that old.

He did his best not to notice the daughter of his father's awkwardly-attractive-yet-heroic-and-sometimes-tolerable schoolyard enemy.

Rose was a self-proclaimed artist and part-time activist. She protested the mistreatment of house elves, wrote largely ignored treatises on the inequity of the wizarding economy, and volunteered at St. Mungo's. She wanted to be an artist, or a writer, "or something like that."

Mostly she imagined herself as an adult, sitting in a cozy flat while rain pelted at the windows as she sipped tea and smoked cigarettes and wrote pages and pages. And if she imagined her future self as being perhaps a bit skinnier with nicer skin and hair that'd been tamed, she didn't bother to correct herself.

Rose came from a family of war heroes.

Scorpius was, first and foremost, a Malfoy, a member of a family that was considered a traitor to both sides.

Sometimes he worried that that was all he was.

Rose was happy. There were paint stains on her hands and colorful pins in her hair, and she took pride in the fact that her socks never matched.

Scorpius was tired. He'd never met a girl like Rose Weasley, and it was very likely that he never would have were it not for the unexpected events of August the 15th, when the trajectory of his life and the shapeless decades stretching before him were irrevocably altered by a chance encounter—but more on that later.

Rose Weasley woke up with a throbbing headache a few weeks into the summer before her final year at Hogwarts. She was up until three the night before attempting to perfect the impressionist piece she'd been working on for a fund-raising auction hosted by SPEW. In typical Rose style, she complained loudly and theatrically until her exasperated mother permitted her to ease the pain with magic.

It was when her magic didn't work that she realized that perhaps, something was wrong.

It happened that quickly.

At seventeen, Rose exited a healing clinic alone, pink-kneed and ashen-faced. There were orphaned thoughts in her mind and crumpled papers in her fist. She walked aimlessly for several blocks, entered a drugstore and bought a pack of nondescript, muggle cigs. She lit one and smoked it.

And then another, and another, until the pale, blonde boy that'd been eyeing her spoke up and asked her _why_ in Merlin's name she was lighting cigarettes with her wand in the middle of London. Rose responded by kicking him in the shin.

And that, incidentally, is where our story begins.

**II.**

For them, though, the _Rose-and-Scorpius_ story began long before that, before they'd even met one another—it began during the sorting ceremony of their first year attending Hogwarts, when the new crop of first years stood huddled in the Great Hall, awaiting their placement. This particular year, the Headmistress herself had deigned to overlook the sorting.

"Malfoy, Scorpius!"

Dominique Weasley poked her cousin.

"Look," she hissed. "It's Malfoy's son."

Rose watched curiously as eleven year old Scorpius walked stiffly to the front of the hall. His robes were pressed and his hair slicked back. He looked ridiculous, Rose decided, and mentally downgraded his academic threat level on the basis that someone who put in _that _much effort to make their hair shiny probably didn't have time to read books.

Albus was standing to her left doing his best not to look nervous. This, apparently, involved muttering under his breath and hopping up and down anxiously.

Rose elbowed him in the ribs.

"Merlin's beard!" he yelped.

She elbowed him again. "Don't be so loud, Al," she scolded. "And stop _prancing._"

He pushed his dark fringe out of his emerald eyes and did his best to level her with a disdainful glare, the result being that he appeared to be cross-eyed.

Rose was contemplating elbowing him again when Headmistress McGonagall's voice carried through the hall:

"Potter, Albus!"

"Bugger," he muttered as he disappeared into the crowd of first years ahead of them. Rose felt of twinge of nervousness on his behalf—but not much—if he was sorted into Slytherin, she and Dom had made plans to tease him mercilessly.

Dominique went minutes later, and then it was Rose's turn to take the centuries old walk to the front and wear the hat. She grinned shakily, awaiting its judgment.

_Ah, another Weasley!_

_Why yes, hello! _Rose thought brightly.

_Well, well, well,_ said the hat a bit more ominously than an article of casual headwear had any right to, as it sifted through her mind.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the sorting ceremony that year was that despite the speculative whispers among the students, everything went as expected: Scorpius Malfoy was sorted to Slytherin, Albus Potter and Rose Weasley to Gryffindor, and Dominique Weasley to Ravenclaw.

Rose thought it was best to sit with other first years so they could make friends, and so she dragged Al with her and they seated themselves next to the other students in their year. Her plan had failed miserably when James Potter and Fred Weasley came over moments later and squashed two unsuspecting first years in their eagerness to be seated next to Rose and Al.

James slapped his brother on the back when the feast began. Twice, for good measure.

"Welcome to the club, old boy," he said, smirking attractively (or so he thought—there was chocolate sauce on his chin and his hair was refusing to acknowledge gravity's pull).

Rose, having resigned herself to James and Fred's presence, decided to pitch in and assist them. She slapped Albus, too, causing him to choke on his pudding.

"Yeah, welcome, old boy!" she exclaimed.

Albus spluttered nonsensically at her with a betrayed look on his face. James, on the other hand, reached down and ruffled Rose's ginger curls with a teary-eyed look of pride.

"This is going to be a wonderful year," he sighed.

"This is what we've been waiting for," Fred added.

"_Precisely_ what we've been waiting for," James said.

"What do you mean?" asked Albus warily.

"Look over there," James said, nudging Al hard enough that he got a face full of pudding.

Seeing as Albus was preoccupied with trying to wipe his face clean and simultaneously curse out his brother while armed with only the vocabulary of an eleven-year old _("You smell, James. I hate you for all time.")_, Rose looked to where James was pointing instead.

"Ew," she said, wrinkling her nose. "You mean Malfoy's son? Why is he going to make this the best year ever?"

"Because now we have an enemy," Fred explained, grinning manically. Rose edged away from him.

"Er, what?"

"You see," said James wisely, "last year we had no one to prank. We didn't have an arch-nemesis. Where's the fun in pranking and mischief if you don't have a target?"

Rose opened her mouth to speak.

"Exactly," James said, cutting her off. "There is none."

Fred nodded reverently.

"But now there's a _Malfoy_ at Hogwarts," James finished, as if this explained everything.

Rose frowned. "I'm not going to let you _bully_ him," she said, perhaps a bit too fiercely.

It was a well-intentioned comment; toying with Al was one thing, and she heartily approved of it, but going out of one's way to harass someone that wasn't a member of the Potter-Weasley clan was entirely different. It was _mean._

"You're not defending him, are you?" James asked, aghast.

"He hasn't even done anything—what would I be defending him for?" Rose asked, rolling her eyes.

Fred's mouth had dropped open, and he was looking back and forth between Rose and the Slytherin table. "Wait a moment," he said, "I'm having a revelation here. You _like_ him."

James threw up his hands in feigned shock and knocked Albus's glasses into a bowl of cabbage soup.

"What?" Rose gaped, but it was too late; the damage was done. A flurry of whispers started up among the girls at the Gryffindor table.

"Merlin—wouldn't it be so bloody cute—"

"A Weasley and a Malfoy? Bollocks—"

"It's like, poetic justice! It just, like, makes _so_ much sense."

And perhaps, the most eloquent of them all: "Oh my _god_, oh my _god,_ oh my _god._"

Rose blinked in surprise. The pale, blonde boy that was sitting by himself and stabbing at the food on his plate held exactly zero appeal to her. Well, maybe it did look like he could use a friend, and a hug or two, and perhaps some advice on how to style his hair better—but for Merlin's sake, she didn't even _know_ him.

She opened her mouth to say just that. "Don't be stupid," she said, shaking her head dismissively, "I don't even know—"

But it didn't matter, because it seemed that Albus had finally lost it and punched James, and no one was paying attention to her anymore.

As her two moronic cousins grappled with one another and rolled off the bench, Rose eyed the boy at the Slytherin table. He _was_ rather cute, she decided. And there definitely was something rather poetic about a Malfoy and a Weasley living happily ever after together. Sure, according to her entire family, Malfoy men were generally massive gits, but they probably had secret soft sides, because according to muggle television, all gits did, right?

She made up her mind.

Maybe she had watched a few too many soap operas with Grandpa Weasley, but when her plate had been cleared and the first year Gryffindors were being herded off, eleven-year-old Rose looked over her shoulder, let her gaze linger on the somber-looking Scorpius Malfoy, and mentally commanded:

_You will be mine._

**III.**

_What the hell was she doing?_

He'd been watching her as the August sun beat down on him for what felt like ages now. To be fair, Scorpius wasn't entirely sure why he was still here when his father was likely expecting him at the box, but at least he wasn't waving his wand around in one of London's many parks for all to see.

She clearly wasn't much of a smoker. It was a bit pathetic the way she'd nearly lit the wrong end, and then coughed for a full minute after she'd finally managed to get the right side in her mouth.

The oddest part of this whole situation was that she hadn't noticed him yet. They were sitting on the same bloody bench, for Dumbledore's sake, but she hadn't bothered to look up since she'd thrown herself down and extracted a pack of cigs from her pocket. Of course he'd noticed her the moment she'd entered his field of vision; it was impossible not to notice the Weasleys—they were so damned loud and ginger.

But this one was surprisingly subdued, especially considering it was _her_.

Scorpius didn't have a least favorite Weasley. Actually, strike that, he did. Fred Weasley was easily at the bottom of the list, but considering he'd graduated this June, Rose had replaced him. He scarcely knew her, despite having had classes with her for the past six years…but that was his own doing. They'd been good friends, long ago; then in third year they'd simply started to drift. They argued over petty things, and it seemed that they had nothing in common.

Then he'd heard all the bloody idiotic, sentimental rumors about how he and the Weasley girl were madly in love, and in around fourth year when he'd discovered that arguing with her only gave the rumors more traction, he'd settled for ignoring her. It was challenging since she was so bloody infuriating most of the time, but it was still better than arguing because that involved actually speaking to her, and that might have entailed getting to know her.

He knew he was being a bit unfair. Most people seemed to get along with her just fine, and Scorpius even got on famously well with her cousin, Albus. It was just that blasted gossip that he didn't like. If wind of it ever got back to his father, he'd likely be disowned (okay, maybe that was a small exaggeration, but still, his father would be mad). It had occurred to him in the past that Rose Weasley was just as much a victim of the gossips of Hogwarts in this situation as he was, but he'd always dismissed the thought quickly because it left him feeling uncomfortably aware that if that were true, the way he'd behaved towards her for several years now was inexcusable.

What it really came down to at this moment, though, was the fact that he'd been sitting at this particular bench first, so it wasn't his job to alert her to his presence. She was supposed to realize he was here and _leave. _Only she didn't, and when she pulled out a fourth cigarette and brandished her wand in plain sight of a group of children running past the park bench they were seated at, Scorpius began to wonder if something was wrong.

He cleared his throat meaningfully.

She didn't even look up.

"Put that away," he hissed.

Rose glanced up, then did a double-take, her eyes widening in disbelief as she recognized him.

"You!" she said, lurching to her feet.

He rolled his eyes at her theatrics. "Yes, it's me. Now put your bloody wand away," he repeated, lowering his voice to a whisper. "If you're so eager to be a chain smoker, use this." He dug into his pocket and pulled out the lighter he always had on him.

She pushed it away, but continued glaring down at him. "What are you doing here?"

He snorted. "I've been here all along, love. You're the one that came and decided to invade my personal space."

Rose's cheeks flushed with anger. "Oh? So you're speaking to me now?"

He shrugged. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked, looking her up and down with undisguised curiosity.

Her frizzy curls were pulled back in a braid, and she wore a green dress. Her face was blotchy, though, and her skin sickly pale. There were bags beneath her eyes.

"You look like shit," he observed dryly, upon realizing she had no plans to answer his question.

Her mouth tightened about the corners, and Scorpius couldn't help thinking that despite it all, she looked cute. That thought lasted about a quarter second before her foot connected painfully with his shin, and Scorpius found himself on his knees. Shit, _fuck, _shit. That _hurt._

"What the fuck is your problem, Weasley?" he spat, blinking up at her as the sun blinded him. He was too stunned by this rapid turn of events to even go for his wand. To her credit, she seemed horrified by her impulsiveness as well. She reached down and grabbed his hand, unceremoniously dragging him to his feet. He staggered back, and resumed sitting.

"I'm so terribly sorry. I genuinely don't know where that spurt of violence arose from," Rose said worriedly, wringing her hands and looking as if she were on the verge of tears.

Sweet Merlin, what had he done to deserve the company of an emotionally unstable Weasley? Scorpius brushed imaginary dirt off his jeans, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He'd forgotten that she often talked like a particularly uptight dictionary.

"It's…whatever," he said, hoping she would leave rather than stick around and embarrass herself further. She didn't. "Off you go," he said, helpfully making shooing motions with his hand, but she just frowned at him crossly.

She sat down again. Scorpius buried his face in his hands. He had no problem being a prick to her at school when there was an audience—that was normal. But here in the middle of London, surrounded by muggles, turning up the Malfoy arrogance and being an arse to her didn't feel like a sound option.

Both of them sat in silence until Rose spoke up.

"So what _are_ you doing here?"

Scorpius chuckled wryly. Apparently she was here to stay. _To hell with it._ _I'll humor her_. "My parents are at the theater about a block away. I snuck out during the intermission and I don't plan on heading back."

"The show's that awful?"

He shook his head. "Worse."

"Hm," she said, kicking her heels against the underside of the bench. "I was at the healing clinic a few blocks away."

Scorpius simply nodded. He wasn't entirely sure why she'd suddenly been struck by the urge to talk to him, but he did have a vague idea. There was obviously something on her mind, if the chain smoking and random mood swings were anything to judge off of. He was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time: Rose Weasley needed someone to talk to, and he was the only one present. It seemed as if it was something fairly serious, too—something that transcended their schoolyard bickering.

He looked up. Rose was peering at him meaningfully, clearly expecting some sort of response. _Shit._ What was he supposed to say? He scarcely knew her—they had practically nothing in common. On any given night at Hogwarts he'd either be with his friends or out on the Quidditch pitch, and she'd be…what, reading _poetry?_ Painting? Being weird in general?

The only reason people even recognized her was because of her family.

"Er, do you want me to go and fetch Albus?" Scorpius asked hopefully. That'd be better for all concerned parties. He'd be free to go, and Albus, being a family member, would be obligated to deal with his distraught cousin.

"Whatever for?" Her tone was distinctly accusatory.

"No reason," he muttered, not bothering to conceal the fact that he'd rather be anywhere but here.

"My visit to the clinic went wonderfully, thank you for asking," Rose said, a good minute later.

"Oh yeah?" Scorpius asked, a note of amusement in his voice. She resumed staring down at her feet in silence. _Bugger this._ He stood up. "S'pose I should be heading back now. My father'll be expecting me."

"Farewell, then," Rose said, not even bothering to lift her head. He almost felt a bit worried as he walked away. But then, she had her gigantic cult of Weasleys and Potters and Lovegoods to look after her.

She'd be fine.

**IV.**

_What the fuck is your problem, Weasley?_

Rose was not a woman of few words. On any other day she would've listed a litany of complaints before he had a chance to get a word in edgewise. She didn't have one problem; she had _several. _Her nail polish was chipping, she'd forgotten to change Sir Theodore's litter, she'd lost the prompt for her Potions summer assignment, her favorite muggle band had cancelled its tour, and she'd discovered quite recently (that morning, in fact) that the healers thought she was ill, and that she would receive her diagnostic results tomorrow.

She watched Scorpius walk away and tried very hard not to ogle his shoulder muscles or the fit of his jeans. There was really nothing likable about him, if one discounted the fact that he had startling eyes, was obscenely wealthy, and _upsettingly_ good looking.

Rose sighed. That thought had started much better than it had ended. She'd much preferred him when he'd been shy and sweet and they'd been _friends. _She didn't like the new, cynical version of him. For a moment there she'd been so bloody angry when he'd insulted her. _You look like shit._

She hadn't been offended. It simply wasn't _right_ for a man to comment on a lady's appearance like that—but even then, she'd simply felt robbed. Her friend from years ago was gone just when she needed a friend the most. Her visit to the clinic had been disconcerting. The cool linoleum floors and white walls, the scent of illness and the arsenal of medications used to treat it had all shaken her. She'd come alone because there was something singularly embarrassing about her magic not working. She didn't want to confess and tell anyone something that was so intimately humiliating.

The medi-witches had been kind, though, and Rose had felt compelled to tell them the entire story. She got headaches frequently, but never as badly as the one she'd woken up with today. They'd questioned her endlessly, asking her about her stress-level, her family life, her sexual activity, until she confessed that the headaches weren't the sole cause for her presence at the clinic. The medi-witches had almost seemed relieved that she hadn't been wasting their time by coming there.

Headaches were treatable. You could take a potion to ease the pain. Rose knew that. But there weren't many potions that could restore someone's magic. When she'd told them about how laboriously she'd had to work to try and dull the throbbing ache in her head, about how she'd been left gasping for breath by the time she'd been able to cast a simple spell, their relief had disappeared. Their smiles had slipped.

She'd been led away for a battery of tests. Rose really wasn't that fond of needles, so that had been a rather unpleasant experience.

She was seventeen, and so they hadn't alerted her parents when she'd shown up unannounced, but when the bill for the tests was owled to her, she didn't have the faintest idea where she'd get the money to pay for it. And if it turned out that she was ill—well, she didn't want to dwell on that just yet.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. She'd been angry at first. She'd always made healthy choices; she didn't drink, didn't smoke, ate organic food—for Merlin's sake, she had her own vegetable garden—and despite that, she was faced with this. She'd lit her first cigarette with her wand as a sign of rebellion to prove that she still had control over her magic, and had thought nothing of lighting another, and when she'd looked up and seen _him _in the middle of London, it had seemed like fate, like a new chance—a new beginning.

Rose knew how these things worked. She'd read enough romance novels to recognize that she was currently a damsel in distress, and Scorpius's sudden appearance clearly indicated that he was going to be her knight.

But she'd been mistaken. He hadn't even wanted to talk to her.

It was quite some time later when Rose returned to her room at the Burrow. She stripped her dress from her sweaty skin and stepped into the shower, letting the cool water wash over her, and resolved to forget all about their chance encounter. Rose Weasley may have been optimistic enough to root for the Cannons every year, but she wasn't truly foolish.

She'd learned from experience that it wasn't a good idea to pin one's hopes on Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.

But she knew she hadn't give up on him yet.

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_**A/N: **Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Review if you'd like! :)  
_


	2. The Delinquent

**V.**

The cold halls of the clinic greeted Rose again the next day.

Rose was a bit embarrassed to discover that she hated it there. It was so terribly cliché and _common_ to hate hospitals. She volunteered at St. Mungo's, and had always been quick to tell people that she was indifferent to the intimidating atmosphere there, but she was now keenly aware that that had been a lie.

Her first breath of the sterile air within calmed her nerves, but the constant buzzing of bells and the scurrying of medi-witches in white hats left her nervously drumming her fingers against her knee-caps as she awaited her turn.

It didn't matter that she was a patient, or that she'd checked herself in—she felt like an intruder. The plain white walls and pristine emptiness left her feeling like an obstacle in an otherwise purposeful and insulated community. The healers bustled about, reciting stats and unfamiliar terms. Nurses carried balloons to the rooms of young patients. Potion makers ferried vats of foul-smelling medicine to and fro.

She really didn't want to be there.

There were children in the waiting room with her, pale-faced and teary-eyed, and that made Rose feel vaguely nauseous. On a whim, she played exploding snap—a game she hadn't enjoyed since she was in second year—with a young girl until a stern-looking nurse entered.

"Weasley, Rose," she called, tapping her clipboard with her wand.

Rose smoothed her pleated skirt down and stood. "That's me," she said hurriedly, feeling strangely worried that the nurse would disappear if she didn't call attention to herself quickly enough. She handed the nurse her wand. The nurse examined it from a moment and confirmed her identity before handing it back.

"Come with me," the nurse said, and exited the room without another word. Rose followed, and was led her down a corridor. "Here we are," the woman said as she stopped before an open door. "Have a seat." She gestured to the leather-backed chair in the center of the small room they'd entered.

"Thanks." Rose threw herself down rather dramatically and examined the room. There were vials on the shelves, and a bin of syringes on the countertop next to an ominously smoking cauldron.

Rose's eyes widened. She cleared her throat. "That's not for me, is it?" she asked worriedly.

"Of course not," the nurse snapped and straightened her hat. "I'm Nurse Francesca. Healer Figgins will be with you in a minute," she said briskly. She flipped through the sheets attached to her clipboard as if to show she was engaged in _serious work_ and was not to be disturbed.

Rose sighed loudly. Nurse Francesca cast her a disparaging look. Rose quieted obligingly and fiddled with the buttons of her blouse, compulsively unbuttoning and rebuttoning the topmost one. The nurse made a disapproving sound in the back of her throat then turned her back to adjust the vials on the shelves so that their labels were facing front.

Rose stuck her tongue out.

Nurse Francesca turned back around.

Rose examined her fingernails.

Nurse Francesca frowned.

It was then that Rose took a moment to study the woman before her, and came to the surprising realization that she was, in fact, more of a girl than a woman. Her pinched features, tightly pulled back hair, and permanent frown all served to conceal the fact that she couldn't have been much older than Rose. In fact, Rose was quite sure she recognized her. Nurse Francesca must've graduated from Hogwarts recently.

The door opened, and a short, bearded man in traditional wizard's robes swept in. His wrinkled face and over-large nose made him look a bit like a gremlin.

"Well, hello!" he exclaimed, his hat bobbing up and down. "I'm Healer Figgins. How are you today?" He flipped through the file in his hands and arched a silver brow. "A Weasley, eh? Still have a headache?"

Rose pushed herself up in her seat, hoping his enthusiastic greeting indicated that the news was good.

"Hello," she said, smiling. "No headache today, thankfully. I'm actually feeling much, much better. And my magic's been as strong as ever—"

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," the aged wizard tutted, and Rose blushed.

"Sorry." She would've sworn that Nurse Francesca was smirking at her from over the healer's shoulder. _Bint._

"It's not a problem," he said as he read through her file. "It seems that our facility was ill-equipped to deal with your case," he said at last.

"Beg your pardon?" Rose asked, nervously tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

"We weren't entirely sure of what your results meant, so we sent them to a consulting healer at St. Mungo's. They reran your diagnostics."

"I see," Rose said, feeling slightly irritated. "So you're saying that…you really weren't qualified to interpret my test results?"

The healer shook his head kindly, setting the file down and knitting his spindly hands together. "It wasn't our fault. It was your results that were…"

"Yes?" Rose prompted, though she was sure she didn't want to know the answer.

"Well, they were rather extraordinary. Have a look," the healer urged gently. Rose reached over and took the folder he'd been perusing. She opened the file and glanced at the first sheet. It cataloged basic information pertaining to her. She flipped the page. In bold, red print was a column of numbers. Two were circled. Rose glanced at them.

Rose let out a low whistle. It was quite evident what Figgins had meant. She didn't know what they indicated, but even she could tell that something wasn't quite right.

It was a strange moment—one she would look back upon in later months and attempt to reconstruct and analyze. She was confused, of course. The numbers themselves seemed out of place on the thick, textured parchment she held in her hands; they appeared anachronistic—finely stylized and printed neatly as if from a typewriter.

Next was the odd hollowness that overtook her. It was as if she was at the top of a precipice, taking the proverbial deep breath before the plunge, or perhaps sniffing Auntie Muriel's floral perfume before kissing her powdery cheek.

Well, in any case, it was a foreboding moment, one that seemed to foreshadow the unpleasantness to come.

"This one right here," she said cautiously, the words getting caught in her throat. "Is it supposed to be this low?"

"That's your magiaparva cellular count. And, er, no. It's supposed to be several times that," the stout healer said, coughing.

"And the other? My…"

"Your procuronoma count," he supplied.

The smirk had slipped off of Nurse Francesca's face, and she was looking steadfastly at her over-polished shoes.

"Yes, that," Rose said, her voice flat. "Is it supposed to be that high?"

"That's the problem," Healer Figgins said, after a long pause. He scratched his bulbous nose thoughtfully. "It isn't supposed to be there at all."

**VI.**

In her first year, Rose was at the top of her class.

It was _easy. _All she had to do was read the chapters before they were covered in class, then take notes during lecture, then reread her notes and the chapter and do all the practice exercises. And then borrow a book or two from the library on the subject, and then perhaps ask her professor to explain any questions she had left.

That was all.

She really didn't understand why some of the other students were struggling when it was so simple. Albus had average marks in more than a few of his classes because he spent so much time with his new friends, "hanging out", or at the Quidditch pitch.

Rose thought he had his priorities all wrong.

Her only real competition came from Cory Wollmouth, a Ravenclaw that was enamored with Dom. That proved to be his undoing. All the time he wasted pining after Dom (who didn't show the least amount of interest in him) was time that Rose spent studying.

So naturally, she'd risen to the top. She loved being number one.

That was why she'd been slightly irritated when she'd been partnered with Scorpius Malfoy in Charms. Yes, she was in love with him (or she thought she was—she didn't even know him, but Rose figured that she shouldn't let something like that get in the way of her and Scorpius's destiny), and yes, she liked that he was close enough that she could admire his profile, but the boy was a terrible distraction from her studies.

Rose would catch herself stealing glances at him in the middle of her lessons, and be forced to mentally scold herself for not paying attention. To make matters worse, Scorpius wouldn't even speak to her.

To be fair, he wouldn't speak to anyone, including the professors. Which was rather odd, but Rose decided it wasn't a fatal flaw, especially since he had so many redeeming qualities (like his hair—Rose rather liked his hair).

It was the 4th of October when Rose Weasley spoke to Scorpius Malfoy for the first time. Her grade in Charms had been slipping, and she just _knew_ Cory Wollmouth was laughing at her behind her back, eager for the chance to be number one.

Rose marched into Charms three minutes early, set her books down on the table, and turned to Scorpius, who had already arrived and seated himself.

"Scorpius, I'm breaking up with you."

He didn't seem at all surprised by this pronouncement; he simply nodded and picked up his books and moved two seats down. Rose sighed sadly. The deed was done, and she would not permit herself to feel any remorse. She would put the matter from her mind.

Albus, who had entered the room precisely as she'd spoken, however, didn't seem keen on letting it go. He threw himself down in the seat next to her.

"Rose? What was that? Did you just break up with him? Since when were you together?"

Rose sniffed. "Al, Scorpius and I have been partners in this class for over a month now."

"Wait, what? Partners in this class?" The dark-haired boy stared at her, bewildered.

She frowned. "Yes, obviously."

"And that's what you meant by breaking up with him? You didn't want to be partners anymore?" Albus's shoulders were shaking with laughter, and his green eyes had lit up with amusement.

"What did you think I meant?" Rose asked quickly, suddenly feeling worried that she'd said something untoward. Albus merely chuckled and slapped her good-naturedly on the back, causing her to squeak in surprise.

At that point, Professor Flitwick—who Rose thought was positively ancient—entered and told them both to be quiet because the lesson was starting, and even went so far as to threaten to dock points. Rose bit her lip and tried to pay attention to the lesson, but she couldn't but watch as a few seats away, her ex-partner perfected his levitation charm all on his own.

The first time Scorpius spoke to Rose, the circumstances were less than ideal.

The Gryffindor and Slytherin first years had been led out onto the Quidditch pitch and were being instructed on basic broom-care, and on how to properly mount a broom. Some of the students, like Albus and his mate Aaron Gregor, clearly knew what they were doing. Others, like Rose, were struggling to hide their fear.

Rose _did _manage to get the broom-care parts down. She had already done some light reading on the subject, and knew how to tend to one. She even managed to mount the broom properly. It was when the broom suddenly decided to take off that things began to go wrong. She wasn't entirely sure of how it happened. One moment she was mounting the broom and feeling inordinately pleased that things were going smoothly, and the next, the broom had jerked to life beneath her, responding to the slightest touch.

She was soaring through the air as her classmates laughed and cheered below, distinctly aware of Madam Hooch's voice screeching above the rest, telling her to get back down _or else._ Only she didn't know how to get back down, and that became terrifyingly clear to everyone seconds later when she lost her grip on the broom, and went tumbling through the air towards the ground.

**VII.**

It was the 16th of August, but James Sirius Potter didn't know that.

He'd lost track of the date a few days ago when he'd taken a buxom blonde named Amelia home with him from the Hog's Head. They'd spent the next two—or was it three?—days in bed together, lounging about his flat in varying degrees of nudity, and ordering take-out. At that particular moment, it was the mid-afternoon and she was sprawled across his bed, her limbs tangled in the linen. James lay next to her in his boxers, warily eyeing the ever-growing pile of unanswered correspondence on his dresser.

"Fuck," he muttered, and rolled over. He lay there a few moments longer, clearing his head and concentrating on the steady breathing of the girl lying next to him, then pulled himself up and headed to the kitchen. He ransacked the cupboards searching for coffee beans, and groaned when his search proved to be fruitless.

There was nothing in the fridge except a six-pack of muggle beer that had gone untouched since the day he'd purchased it a month ago. He was surprised it didn't have cobwebs on it by now.

James headed back to the bed. "Hey," he said loudly, shaking Amelia awake. She yawned and reached out blindly, grasping for him and humming contentedly. James grinned. "Nah, not now," he said much more softly as she tried to pull him down, presumably for a snog.

Her eyes opened and she pouted. "What's up?" she asked, her voice rough with sleep.

_Fuck. She was sexy. _James changed his mind and leaned down to kiss her, but she pulled back.

"Ew. Gross, love. Morning breath."

James laughed. "It's not the morning, though. It's the early afternoon, and we're all out of coffee."

"Bad," Amelia said, her voice muffled by her pillow.

"Yeah, very bad," James agreed, holding back another laugh. "I'm heading out to get food and stuff. Want anything?"

She shook her head, her blonde curls bobbing from side to side.

"Alright, then," James said, and rose. He pulled his shirt over his head and buckled on his trousers, side-stepping the clothes and trash that littered the floor as he made his way to the door. He stopped only to rinse his mouth out and grab his wallet and wand off the counter before leaving the flat.

The streets of Hogsmeade were packed. The village was a popular tourist location over the summer, as well as a home to its year-round residents. James had found a good deal on his flat and purchased it with the remnants of the money he'd been left by Grandpa Weasley in his will the day after he'd left Hogwarts.

He headed to the local grocery store and entered. The shopkeeper, a little old man who always wore his Sunday best, lowered his eyes when James entered. When James had first arrived, the shopkeeper—indeed, the entire village—had been quick to welcome him.

Then, as they'd learned more about him, as they'd seen him stagger home drunk on hot summer nights and bring home one girl after another, it had become evident that he was no longer welcome.

But he stayed. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go.

A toad-faced woman perusing magazines by the rack tutted loudly as he walked past, and James scarcely resisted the urge to laugh when he recognized her. "Aunt" Marie Marigold (who wasn't even an aunt, but always insisted that everyone refer to her as such) was the head gossip of Hogsmeade, and took great pleasure in cataloging and recounting tales to the rest of the villagers.

He strode past and headed to the back of the store, where he encountered an equally distasteful scene. A young boy lounged by the store's back entrance and was offering derisive comments to every female that walked past.

James shot him disgusted look. He'd seen the boys like him around before. The war had led plenty of wizarding families to financial ruin, and many of the children born in its wake had been abandoned or left at orphanages. At age fourteen, they would be permitted to leave the Ministry's custody, and often ended up in magical villages, roaming the area like street urchins.

The boy looked up, having sensed James's gaze, and scowled. "What are ya looking at?" he growled.

"You're one of Fletcher's boys," James noted dryly, not impressed by the boy's tough act.

"Aye," he said, brown eyes widening. "How'd ya know?"

"It's pretty fucking easy to tell," James muttered, glancing around. Marie Marigold was watching the exchange over the top of her copy of _Witch Weekly_ with a gleeful expression on her face. Clearly, catching him associating with a shady-looking youth was good material for gossip.

James flashed her his middle finger and she dropped her magazine, horrified. He smirked. _Served her right._ He couldn't help feeling the tiniest bit of regret as she scurried out of the store, clutching her atrocious, yellow hat to her hair, but he dismissed the foreign emotion with a shake of his head.

The boy grinned, and seemed to take her departure as a sign that James was a kindred spirit. He skipped right to the sale's pitch that James had known he would inevitably receive.

"Ya up for some?" he asked, lowering his voice shoving a hand into the pocket of his grimy, dark coat and withdrawing a small pouch. He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

James, despite it all, found himself considering it. Amelia seemed like an interesting enough girl—she might think it would be a grand adventure to try some. _He_ didn't want any, though. It wasn't as if the very thought of a hit made his limbs tense and his throat go dry.

Of course not.

He rubbed a hand over his face and heaved a sigh. "Not really," he said, and was proud of how steady his voice sounded.

The boy sneered. "Hogwash. It's the best kick ya'll ever have, mate. We only have the best stuff." He spoke too quickly and his voice was an octave or two higher than it should have been for a boy his age.

"Now _that's_ bullshit," James scoffed and turned away, his resolve strengthening. He'd come to get coffee and milk, and that was what he'd leave with, not some half-rate snuff that one of Fletcher's boys had cooked up in a rusty cauldron.

The boy caught him by the shoulder.

"What the hell?" James spat, trying to shake the filthy youth off as he leaned in and wrapped an arm around James' torso. He felt something drop into his pocket, and then the boy pulled back.

"Courtesy o' Mundungus Fletcher," the boy whispered, and then announced loud enough for the passerby to hear: "and it was wonderful to catch up with ya, old chap." He turned his heel and walked away, but paused to call over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. "Ya know just where to find me."

"Like hell," James scoffed.

He rolled his eyes as the door jangled, signaling the boy's exit. How typical of Mundungus to hire a boy that was likely too poor to afford a Hogwarts education. No self-respecting, educated wizard would ever sell that particular product so blatantly in Hogsmeade, of all places. James had been able to recognize him easily: the boy's shifty eyes and hyperactive speech had been dead giveaways.

James, on the other hand, was fine—or so he told himself. His breathing had quickened, and the added weight of a few grams in his pocket seemed to be a painful burden. He'd have to toss it as soon as he had a chance. He went to the counter, his head ducked. He didn't want to receive any more pitying glances, and now that Marie Marigold had seen him converse with a filthy, bedraggled boy, the village would assume that he'd fallen even farther.

James finished his purchase and hurried back to the flat, wanting nothing more than to lose himself once more in Amelia's arms, or more accurately (and hopefully), her voluptuous curves. There was, however, someone unexpected standing outside his door when he arrived. Her red mane, as James liked to call it, was rather distinctive, and so he recognized his cousin from half-way down the street.

"Hullo, Rose. What are you doing here?" he asked uneasily, when he'd drawn close. "I've got company."

"You've always got company," Rose said, not bothering to greet him or even answer his question. "Send her away."

"Who says it's a 'her'? Suppose I've just got friends over?"

"What friends?" Rose quipped.

James pretended to scowl. "I have plenty of friends, Rose."

"You mean the blokes you go bar-hopping with? They don't count. You should get a job."

"Never," he said in mock horror.

"Why not potion-making? You were always good at that." James couldn't help it; he cracked up. Rose looked so adorably put out. "You're an embarrassment, you know?" she scolded, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Ah, Rose, you wound me."

"Nonsense. You're sort of okay, James. Sort of." James pouted. "Oh stop," Rose said, laughing. "You know I love you."

"Yeah, I know," he said a bit too seriously—because he did know. James Potter wasn't sure of much—not even of the date, to be quite honest—but he knew Rose Weasley was too sweet to see his many faults.

"Well? Aren't you going to let me in?" Rose demanded.

"Yeah, er—give me a moment," James muttered. He opened the door, entered, and shut it quickly behind him.

"For Merlin's sake, James. Open up right now or I will hex your—"

"Silencio," he muttered, waving his wand at the door. He kicked his shoes off and glanced around the flat frantically. "Amelia," he called, as he cleared the empty take-out boxes on the kitchen counter. "Ame—"

"What is it?" she called, appearing in the kitchen doorway. James glanced up. _Shit._ She wasn't wearing anything other than one of his old Quidditch jerseys, and she was leaning back against the doorframe in a way that exposed quite a bit of cleavage. James averted his eyes.

"Get dressed. You—you need to leave."

"What?" she repeated, this time incredulously.

"I said you need to leave," James said slowly.

She stared at him blankly. "Merlin, you're serious, aren't you?"

He grinned and ruffled his dark hair. "Actually—"

"Don't," she hissed. "Don't you dare." James frowned. People usually liked his puns.

Amelia shook her head furiously, pacing back and forth, muttering all the while. "Merlin. Holy Merlin—why do you want me to just—"

"It's a long story and I'll explain it later…" he cut in, growing worried. Rose was still waiting outside for him. Amelia spun on her heel to face him.

"Fucking hell, you twat, you think now that you've had your fun with me you can just send me packing?" Amelia spat.

James was incredibly relieved. "Yes!" he beamed. "Exactly. I'm so glad you understand. That makes this much easier."

"No," she said shrilly, "I don't fucking understand. Please, James, enlighten me."

James blinked in confusion. "Look," he said cautiously, "this was great. No—this was fantastic. These past few days I mean. And we should certainly do it again, okay? I'll floo you! It'll be fun."

She was still glaring angrily. Apparently that hadn't been the right thing to say.

He adjusted his glasses nervously, turned away to avoid making eye-contact with her, and continued cleaning up the flat.

"But right now," he whispered with his back turned, "my cousin's outside that door and she's quite possibly the only person in my family that hasn't written me off as a giant prick, _so you need to leave."_

"Are you fucking with me right now? _Please_ be joking."

"I mean it. You have to go," he said again, more urgently this time as he shoved his correspondence—alright, fine, they were mostly unpaid bills—into a drawer, and set to work straightening the cushions.

She stared at him blankly for a second, as if unable to understand what he was saying.

"Leave," he suggested helpfully, for what felt like the dozenth time. "I'm asking you to leave."

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared. "You're an arse, James."

"Whatever," he muttered, as she stormed out of the room. He heard the crack that rent the air as she disapparated only moments later. "Bitch."

James scrambled about, vanishing empty condom wrappers and throwing his dirty laundry back into the closet, then did one last check of the flat. _Shit._ His bong was lying on the couch, for fuck's sake. He threw that into the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink and then surveyed his handiwork, satisfied that everything looked presentable.

He knew he was being ridiculous.

He didn't really care.

He went back to the door and opened it. Rose had seated herself on the bottom step.

"Hi again," he said brightly.

"Hi," she said, standing up. She walked right past him, choosing not to comment on the shouting match she'd obviously just overheard. James stared after her. "Where's the food?" she called from inside. James shut the door and seated himself at the kitchen table.

He gestured towards the bag of groceries on the counter wordlessly. Rose snorted as she withdrew a half-dozen packs of instant noodles and some coffee powder.

"Seriously, James?"

"You know it, Rose," he said, shrugging. "I try to be highly serious about everything."

Rose snorted again and rummaged through the cupboards for a pot. James arched an eyebrow and pulled his wand out of his back pocket.

"_Accio _pot."

About ten pots of varying sizes flew from the cupboards and collided with James, knocking him off his chair. Rose stared down at him for an awkward second before they both burst out laughing.

"Idiot," she scolded.

He pulled himself up and handed her the right sized pot. "Say what you will, but my methods work."

Rose took the pot and pushed him off his chair again.

"What the—" Pause. He dusted himself off and pulled himself up again "That was highly unnecessary, Rose."

"Maybe," she conceded, then set some water to boil and emptied a pack of noodles into it. James watched, waiting for her to explain herself. This was how it usually went when Rose decided to pay him a visit. She'd scold him about his misdemeanors, make food, and then she'd vent about whatever it was she had on her mind.

When the food was on the table, James examined his cousin uncertainly as she poked at her plate with a fork. Her face was pale and wan, and her eyes dull.

"You should eat," he suggested. "You'll feel better."

Rose set her fork down and frowned. "Who says I'm not feeling well?"

"Um," he gulped.

Rose rolled her eyes to but gave him a small smile to show him that she was just teasing. That worried him. Rose's smiles were generally cheeky and obnoxious. Not small and sad like this one.

"What is it?"

"James," she said at length, "do you ever think that magic isn't the best way to go about doing things?"

"No," he answered without a thought.

Rose watched him curiously for a moment then reached into her bag and pulled out a folder. She handed it to James.

"Open it."

He set down his fork and eyed the folder warily before accepting it, then opened it and flipped through the pages, feeling more than a little confused. He turned to a random page and began to read.

_The patient exhibits symptoms of chronic inimicia; loss_ _of magical ability symptom of ailing magiaparva count; unfettered division of procuronoma cells choking off blood and growth & division of regulators._

"Rose? What is this?" All traces of humor were gone from his voice.

"Keep reading."

_Suggested treatment; targeted therapies and potions cocktail. Combination TBA. Delivered to bloodstream; restrict division. _

_Cost of diagnostics: 576 Galleons | Projected cost of treatments: - | Projected cost of clinic visits: - _

"What the fuck does this even mean? You know I don't understand big words, Rose—"

"Not in the mood, James. _Keep reading_."

He flipped back to the front.

_Patient Info; 5'6, female, medical history: unavailable, age: 17, name: Rose Augusta Weasley._

Oh.

_Prognosis; 6 months without treatment, 18 months with._

No, that didn't quite make sense. He read it again, and this time the message registered. His hands shook as he set the file down.

"James?" Rose prompted tentatively. But James couldn't really hear her.

_No._

_No, no, no. This had to be a cruel joke._

"James?"

"If I'm reading this right," he said, staring down at the table, "you're in a spot of trouble."

Rose nodded. "It seems that I'm very ill. Possibly dying." He said nothing, and Rose frowned. That was a very ambiguous statement coming from_ her_, after all. "And not in a figurative, metaphoric way, Jamie. I'm _actually_ dying," she explained.

"In a painfully real, inescapable sort of way, then?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the tabletop, his voice uncharacteristically low. He didn't think he was capable of looking up and meeting her eyes just that moment. Not that he was going to cry. James Sirius Potter never cried.

Of course not.

"Yes, that's the sort," Rose said.

"Hm," James said, only he was painfully aware of the fact that the noise he made came out a bit more strangled than that—rather like he was choking, or perhaps doing a poor job of holding back a sob.

"I don't know how I'm going to pay for treatment," Rose said conversationally.

James looked up at her. "You're loaded."

"My parents are loaded," she corrected. "I'm not planning on telling them about this though."

"Oh." He rubbed a hand over his face, still too numb to grasp the reality of the situation at hand. "Okay. But why?"

"Er, well, seeing as, you know, I haven't got all that much time—"

He didn't want to hear this. He cut her off. "Rose—"

"No, let me finish," she snapped, placing her hands flat on the table before continuing in a more confident tone. "I haven't got that much time and I want these months to be good. I don't need our entire family—"

"Yours. Your family. Not mine," James cut in bitterly.

"James, shut up for a moment. There are more pressing issues than your teenage angst that need to be dealt with."

And for some reason, that made him irrationally angry.

"This isn't funny Rose! How the fuck did this happen? You think you can just come in here and tell me you're fucking dying? What is this?"

"James," she whispered worriedly, reaching across the table to try and rest her hand on her cousin's shoulder. He flinched away. "Merlin, James, I'm sorry. I suppose I didn't know who else to go to."

He could hear the strain of her voice; he could sense the tears she was holding back.

He cleared his throat. "Damn it, don't apologize. I'm sorry. I—" he cut off and stared down bitterly. _He had to do this._ There was no other choice. "I'm going to get you the money, Rose, and you don't have to tell anyone else if you don't want to."

"Honestly?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.

"Honestly," he said, nodding. He smiled back. "I'll just head over to the bank. Don't worry about it. Relax. Try and get well. I'm—I'm really glad you told me."

Rose beamed. "James, you are utterly fantastic!"

"I know," he said solemnly. "Now, don't you have some sort of SPEW auction to attend?"

"You do read my letters!"

James rolled his eyes. "Just go," he said, his laughter bellying the tightening in his chest, and the perspiration collecting at the back of his neck. She grinned and reached up to ruffle his hair.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She jumped to her feet and gave him a quick hug before rushing out of the kitchen, and out the door.

James stared after his departed cousin.

_Fuck._

That word aptly summarized the situation.

James had, in fact, headed to the bank last week to make a withdrawal, but he'd been denied by the goblin behind the counter.

The teller had eyed him warily. "Perhaps, Messr Potter, it would do best if you would approach private lenders. Gringott's has placed a hold on all withdrawals from your account," the goblin had said.

James had known he was in debt. He'd spent all the money he'd been left by his grandfather—and more. But he hadn't realized it was this bad until recently. And now _this._ Somehow he had to pay for Rose's treatment. There was no fucking way he could back out now, and he felt horrifically guilty for feeling resentful that Rose had chosen to burden him, of all people, with her secret.

She should have known better than to trust him. The rest of their family did.

James bit back a curse. He wandered into the living room, tossed his jacked onto the floor and sat down on his ratty old couch and wondered if he should drop by the bar, or go out for a ride on his broomstick. He couldn't find the energy to do either, though, so he simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how everything in his life had managed to go to absolute shit since he'd graduated.

A mole-skin pouch lying next to his jacket on the floor caught his attention. It took him a second to remember what it was. The boy at the grocer's had given it to him earlier that day.

He reached down and retrieved the pouch. His fingers hovered above the drawstrings. It would be blissful to light up now. One hit and he'd be in another world, one where Rose Weasley wasn't dying, where he wasn't a debt-ridden failure, where he hadn't peaked at Hogwarts.

He dropped the bag to the floor and kicked it beneath the couch, then headed into the kitchen. James grabbed a can of old beer from the fridge and took a swig.

_Tasted like shit. _

He gulped down the entire thing, and decided he didn't give a damn. Maybe a Weasley could be felled by something as _stupid _as a physical illness. Maybe the son of the Chosen One would be sent to fucking debtor's prison. Who cared? As James drank his third beer, he came to the conclusion that he certainly didn't.

Not that he truly believed that.

Of course not.

**VI.**

In those terrifying split-seconds, Rose realized she was _falling. _Tumbling, plunging, descending, dropping. There were plenty of words for it, but what it came down to was that Rose was plummeting towards the ground and a velocity that would likely leave her with _serious_ health concerns, and a howler or two from her mother. Her robes billowed about her, and she couldn't quite reach her wand; panic gripped her and her heart thundered in her chest, her throat constricting until she couldn't breathe as she realized that she was probably going to—

Her fall came to a sudden halt as a voice cried out across the pitch.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

She was gripped by an invisible force that jolted her to a stop in mid-air. Slowly but surely, she was lowered to the ground, where she crumpled into an undignified heap and covered her face with her hands, humiliated beyond belief. Madam Hooch checked to see that she wasn't physically harmed, then hurried away, up to the castle to fetch Madam Pomfrey. Rose sat there, willing the ground to swallow her up. The crowd of students gathered around her didn't seem interested in letting her be, though.

Someone prodded her with their wand, and Rose peaked between her fingers to see who it was.

A blonde-haired boy stood before her. "Merlin," the boy breathed. "I nearly didn't get my wand out in time. I thought you were going to...you know. Are you alright?"

_Was she? _Rose wasn't quite sure how to answer that question honestly as she blinked up at the quick-witted boy that had saved her. She was still very shaken, but she pulled herself to her feet and dusted off her robes.

"Oh, it's you!" she gasped.

Scorpius gave her an odd look, as if asking who else he could possibly be, but to Rose's delight, a slight blush tinged his cheeks.

Rose had barely opened her mouth to continue when her dratted cousin ruined the moment.

"That was wicked cool!" Al exclaimed, as he pushed himself between them and grabbed Scorpius's hand. "You're the man," he informed him as he shook his hand vigorously. Scorpius offered Al a tentative grin, and didn't resist when Al dragged him over to meet his friend Aaron. Rose stared after them as an irritated looking Madam Pomfrey arrived at the pitch, muttering beneath her breath about the perils of mixing first years and Quidditch.

Rose consented to being led off the pitch to the hospital wing. Nothing was broken or bruised save for her ego, and at the very least, she thought she could do with a Calming Draught to settle her nerves. Her sudden fall, coupled with the startling grey eyes of the boy who'd saved her, had proved to be a bit much for one day.

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a review, it makes my day :)**  
_


	3. Breaking

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed an favorited! It was such a pleasant suprise, and was a fantastic motivator for writing this chapter. :D**

**VIII.**

"It's your turn."

"Nonsense," Draco Malfoy snapped. "If you think this is necessary, hire a nanny. Or ask the house elf to tell him a story. You can't expect me to go and—"

"And tuck your own son in?" his wife finished, arching an eyebrow.

They stood in the manor's atrium. The evening was wearing on and they had just returned from a dinner party when Astoria sprung this request on him.

Draco sneered. "Malfoys don't need to be _tucked in._"

Astoria bit her lip to keep from laughing. She was still in her evening gown, a dress of deep russet, and her hair was swept up into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck.

"What?" Draco demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Go tuck him in. He's four and he wants a bed time story and I promised you'd tell him one before we left."

"Are you listening to me, woman? I said I'm not going to—"

"If you're too proud to do it, don't worry about that. Your dignity was already compromised when you said the words 'tucked in'."

_Shit. _She certainly had a point there. He took two steps forward, towering over his wife as he glared down at her. "You," he said, "are a very lucky woman."

"Oh?" Astoria said, quirking a brow. "And why is that?"

"Because I'm in love with you. And if I weren't, the consequences for your impudence would be dire."

"Dire?" Astoria gasped in mock horror.

"Dire," he affirmed, nodding gravely, and then he bent down to place a swift kiss on her lips. His wife turned away before he could, and Draco nearly hissed with impatience.

"There's time for that later. Put your son to bed, and then come find me and I'll tuck _you_ in," Astoria said, with a faint smile lingering about her mouth. She took a quick step back and hurried out of the room.

Draco frowned after her. So Astoria could say "tuck in" without compromising her dignity? It was entirely unfair. He trudged down the hall to his son's room, and pushed the door open. He didn't exactly spend quality time with Scorpius, but he wasn't averse to conversing with him either.

They often had dinner together, and once in a while, Draco would present Scorpius to relations that visited. Draco figured that meant he was a good father. Asking him to tell his son a bed time story, though? That was preposterous. He could hardly be expected to go so far in the name of fatherhood.

He glanced around the room, but Scorpius was nowhere to be seen. The sound of muffled giggling came from beneath the sheets, and Draco realized, with a sense of chagrin, that the boy was hiding. The giggling grew louder as Draco yanked the sheets back, but stopped suddenly as the boy was exposed and blinked up at him in surprise.

"You're not my Mummy," he said petulantly. "You're my _father._"

Draco glanced heavenwards. "That is correct."

Scorpius sniffed. He was a good natured child, albeit a bit shy in public, and he'd inherited his father's blonde hair and his mother's curls. The boy grinned cheekily at Draco.

"Are you here to tell me my story?"

Draco nodded stiffly and pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed and sat. He didn't know any bed time stories. He did, however, know his family genealogy and history by heart.

He cleared his throat. "In 1066, Armand Malfoy came to England with William the Conqueror—then William of Normandy. It wasn't until he vanquished—"

"Father…"

"It's rude to interrupt. It wasn't until William vanquished his enemies that he was able to—"

"What's a van-squish?"

"It's _vanquish,_" Draco said, trying his utmost to sound stern as he looked down at his wide-eyed son. "It means to defeat. William of Normandy defeated Harold II at the Battle of Hastings, and the Norman invasion of England—"

"Were there dragons?"

Draco looked sharply at Scorpius. "What?"

"Did they get to van-squish the bad guys because they had dragons helping out?"

_What sort of a question was that?_ "…No."

"Oh," the little boy said, his brow furrowing as he processed this disappointing piece of information. To Draco's amusement, his son's expression brightened a second later. "Unicorns! Did they have unicorns?"

"No," Draco said again, and Scorpius' hopeful look crumpled. Something caught in Draco's chest and he rushed to clarify. "Or maybe they did. Yes, actually, you're right. They definitely did have unicorns."

The boy beamed delightedly.

Draco cringed. If Astoria were here she'd most certainly have been laughing at him.

"So William of Normandy marched into battle…with his many unicorns flanking him, and vanquished his dastardly foes and was proclaimed king. Armand assisted him, and was given a dukedom. That's how the Malfoy line was established in Britain. The end."

"Why?" Scorpius asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did they have to lose?"

"I don't know if they _had_ to lose, Scorpius, but they did."

"Oh…so if they did something different they wouldn't of lost?"

"Wouldn't have, not wouldn't of," Draco said, frowning, and mentally decided to check in on whether the tutors he'd hired to teach his son had been doing their jobs.

"If they did something different, they wouldn't _have_ lost?" Scorpius repeated.

Draco didn't know what to say to that. Harold II's reign had been short-lived because…well, because that was the way things had turned out. Why did there have to be a reason for it? Draco had pondered these questions once, when he was young, in the aftermath of a war he never spoke of. He'd looked at the sign of his loyalty, tattooed into his flesh, and wondered how his world had come crashing down around him, and how nearly a thousand years of Malfoys had been on the wrong side of history.

Perhaps it was that the Dark Lord had been too powerful. He was a man out of his time and depth, who didn't fit into the world that his contemporaries had crafted. Perhaps it simply was that he was too great, too much, and all at once.

Scorpius nudged Draco, waiting for an answer, but Draco didn't have one. He considered the question in his mind, but found no answers other than the bare facts. Harold II had lost because he had to. That was the way things had to be. There was no alternative.

"Every kingdom has to fall, Scorpius," he said at last. "No matter how great or powerful—and especially if it's great and powerful—the end comes for them all."

Scorpius considered this for a moment, and then wrinkled his nose. "Ew."

Draco surprised himself by smiling wryly at his son. "Yes," he said, nodding, "ew."

He pulled the covers up to Scorpius's chin and gave him a half-hearted pat on his curly-haired head. The boy stared up at Draco expectantly.

"Go to sleep," Draco urged.

Scorpius blinked.

_Was there something else he was supposed to do?_ "Sleep," Draco commanded, feeling more stupid by the minute.

Scorpius pouted and kicked the covers off. "You're _supposed_ to give me kisses," he whined. "_Mummy_ always gives me kisses."

"Your mother spoils you," Draco snapped. "It's possible to fall asleep without kisses, so tonight you'll have to make do without them."

He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth. What if Scorpius started crying? He had no bloody idea how to handle a crying child—certainly, he couldn't handle it the way his father would have, with a swift beating. But to Draco's relief, the boy didn't cry.

"Prove it," Scorpius said. Then, as if to show how skeptical he truly was of his father's words, he stuck his tongue out.

"I—what?" Draco spluttered. He was struck by the ridiculous urge to stick his tongue out in return, but managed to collect himself in time to prevent that from occurring. Thank Merlin for small mercies. "Fine," he huffed, "I'll show you how it's done."

Feeling extremely foolish, Draco climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up. Scorpius was still looking at him doubtfully, so Draco shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Time seemed to slow, and he could feel the seconds inching by. A few minutes later, feeling inordinately pleased with himself, Draco deemed the demonstration a success and was about to open his eyes and announce to Scorpius that that was how it was done—that it was certainly possible to fall asleep without kisses—but before he could, something curious happened.

There was a shift in the mattress beneath him as his son snuggled up beside him. Draco tensed. Suddenly, he was afraid to move. He wasn't entirely sure how children _worked. _If he made any sudden movements, would Scorpius get frightened and run away?

He tried to stay still—he really did—but then something terrifying happened to Draco Malfoy…

He sneezed.

The boy didn't run away, though. He didn't even move. Instead, he mumbled "Bless you," so softly that Draco could scarcely hear him, but loudly enough that it did him in. Something ached in his chest, and had he been a more forthright man, he might have admitted to himself that the ache was coming from the same general area as his heart.

He wrapped his arm around his son, pulling him against his chest. Scorpius wriggled mutinously in his grasp, but Draco held tight and pressed a quick kiss to the top of his son's blonde curls.

Scorpius stilled at that, and for a few blessed minutes, Draco thought Scorpius had finally exhausted himself and fallen asleep. Then, the boy rolled over and sat up in bed.

"Father?" Scorpius said tentatively.

Draco groaned. "What?"

"You love me, right?" Scorpius asked.

"I…Of course, Scorpius."

"Okay. Good. I was just checking because one time my friend Ava Zabini who I met at Mum's party this one time and anyway she told me that she had a house elf that got her candies and they tasted good so I was just thinking if you loved me."

_What?_ "Scorpius," Draco said slowly, "what the devil does Ava Zabini's house elf have to do with whether or not I love you?"

Scorpius seemed startled by this question. He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Well, you never get me any candies," he pointed out.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'll buy you some candy tomorrow."

"Thank you!"

"You're welcome," Draco said, sighing, then added under his breath, "Now go the fuck to sleep."

**IX.**

It was damned good luck that his father had headed out with a muttered excuse about some SPEW event or the other. Scorpius had always thought it shameful that his father got involved in SPEW's nonsense, but when questioned as to why he always attended, Draco Malfoy would shake his head, avert his eyes, and mention something about some old house elf he'd once had—Dobby, was it? Or perhaps Fobby?

It didn't matter. House elves had strange names, and Scorpius didn't really care, anyway. What he _did_ care about was that his father's absence gave him the perfect opportunity to sneak out. Yes, it was a bit odd that Scorpius would sneak out to meet up with two Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw. Possibly the only thing odder than that was the reason they were meeting up.

Scorpius apparated to a discrete spot behind the hedges of Albus Potter's house and waited for his mate to meet him. He wasn't turning seventeen for another three days, to be precise, but what did it matter? Who was going to come after a Malfoy for something as trivial and routine as underage magic?

"Malfoy," Albus said, grinning as he scrambled over the hedge, landing lightly on his feet. Albus Potter was tall and lanky, with unruly black hair, green eyes and freckles, and being a Potter, was an unlikely friend for Scorpius. However, the two had met in first year and discovered that they had quite a bit in common—namely, their taste in music.

"Hey," Scorpius said, with a curt nod of his head. "Next stop, Aaron's house?"

Albus shook his head. "Aaron can't make it. He's got a thing."

"A thing? Whenever I have a _thing_ I get bitched out," Scorpius pointed out.

"Yeah, but you always ditch us to spend time with your posh, pureblood _acquaintances,_" Albus said, grinning.

Scorpius rolled his eyes. "Not in the mood today, Al," he warned.

Albus shrugged it off. "Whatever, mate. You're on lead guitar today, though, since Aaron can't make it."

Scorpius felt a twinge of apprehension, but didn't dare suggest cancelling the gig. Albus would think he was a coward. "Sure," he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could, but his friend saw right through him.

"Don't worry about it, Malfoy. You'll do fine." He glanced at his watch. "Rohan's meeting up with us at the hall. We better get going."

Scorpius nodded, and the two of them apparated to the hall they'd booked a gig at, and entered through the back. Rohan had driven there and was already on stage, setting up.

"Hey man, you ready?" Rohan asked as he fiddled with his guitar. The amps were set up at the sides of the stage, and Albus's drum set was towards the back.

Scorpius shrugged and adjusted his neck strap.

Scorpius wasn't great on guitar, but he was good enough. He'd been roped into joining their band when Aaron Gregor had broken his hand from a Quidditch injury. Despite the bone being set and magically healed, he'd been advised to avoid over-exerting his hand for a month. Albus had approached Scorpius about it within a week—he knew purebloods were taught music by tutors from an early age, and Scorpius was no exception.

Scorpius knew a decent amount about music, and had managed to pick up the guitar rather quickly. When Aaron had recovered from his injury, he'd stayed on as a guitarist but mostly played repetitive chords while Aaron stole the stage. Scorpius didn't really mind—in fact, he preferred it that way, which was why he was slightly nervous about going solo tonight.

Scorpius knew that a lot of his fellow Slytherins knew he fucked around on guitar with other students, but they'd never have guessed he actually played shows.

The attendees began filing in. They were muggles, seeing as it was a muggle joint, and looked nothing like Hogwarts students. They were a strange bunch—some were tattooed and it looked as if most of the crowd had invested in several bottles of hair dye.

The room was pretty spacious, but soon enough it was packed and reeked of alcohol and sweat the way it always did before a show. They were opening for a more popular band—The White Suns—and would only be playing two songs.

Rohan looked at Scorpius and Albus, who flashed him thumbs up.

"I'm ready when you are," Scorpius said, smiling weakly.

Rohan nodded and took his spot at the front.

Girls loved Rohan—his chocolate colored skin, curly dark hair and large eyes rimmed with long lashes drew them to him like flies to honey. Next to him, Scorpius, with his classical good looks, looked pale and plain. Scorpius half-suspected that it wasn't just girls that found Rohan appealing—he was fairly sure Albus did, too, though Scorpius would never voice his suspicion, and Albus would never admit his affection.

Scorpius opened their first song with a chord, and Rohan leaned in, breathing heavily, his lips practically pressed against the mic as he met the eyes of the women in the crowd and crooned in his low, smooth voice. It was a cover, one that most of the audience knew well—Nina Simone's Feeling Good.

_Birds flyin' high, you know how I feel  
Sun in the sky, you know how I feel_

Shit. He was the slightest bit behind, and Rohan kept glancing at him through the corner of his eyes as if willing him to speed up. His fingers fumbled and he nearly dropped the guitar pick. It wasn't his fault, really. He wasn't _feeling_ the song. He didn't feel good today.

_It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life  
For me…and I'm feelin' good_

The song ended with a smattering of applause from the audience (and a few shrill cries of "Marry me!" from the back of the crowd, no doubt directed towards Rohan).

Their next song was an original that Scorpius had helped Albus write, and in this one, Albus had lead vocals. His voice was stronger, less trained, and almost uncomfortable to listen to in its haunting rawness. The song seemed to pulsate as Albus rocked back and forth, seated at the drum set and playing as he sang.

_I wonder if the government should be poorer, honey  
Don't write their own music, don't make their own money  
Beating a broken people 'til we're black and blue  
We don't need them, but I can promise they need you_

The crowd liked this song; they were pushing up against the stage, reaching upwards, and Scorpius felt as if he was, too. There was something primal about the song's heavy backbeat, about the way the cymbals shuddered and the drum rolled and reverberated within him, echoing in the hollow recesses of his body.

_I'm hungry, horny, and hysterical, making music  
drug-addled geniuses workin' desk jobs 'til they lose it_

Scorpius's throat was dry; he felt thirstier than he ever had, and as if he were exploding with adrenaline as his fingers rushed over the instrument in his hands. Rohan's eyes were shut and he played a steady rhythm on the bass, setting a pace for the song, and Scorpius wove around that.

He kept seeing flashes of _her_ in his mind's eye—her red hair, her throaty laughter—and he felt something breaking within him. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to scream, to vomit, to cry, to _play_.

_I'll tell you what's real and what's true  
We can make love until morning finally breaks  
or bend over backwards for the man 'til our backs do  
Let me tell you what's real and what's true_

Scorpius ripped into his solo, flying high. He was too into the moment to keep time numerically, and soon he was hopelessly lost, keeping up with the mind-numbing thrash of the crowd, feeling, rather than counting, the beats as they fell.

He jumped, he slid, he cut himself on his microphone stand and bled on the stage, crashed to his bruised knees and finished with a poignant chord progression, bent over the guitar, prying music from its cold, metallic strings.

Then there was a beat of silence as the last, keening note faded, and Scorpius felt like he was burning from the inside out—of embarrassment, for laying himself bare before dozens of eyes, but also of rage and excitement and a thousand other emotions stumbling over themselves at once and fighting to the surface.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and opened his mouth to speak, but was gripped by fear that nothing would come out even if he tried. He'd already shared everything he had to say when he'd played.

"Thank you everybody for coming out tonight," he croaked, and flashed a crooked grin. He cleared his throat and then continued, his throat still hoarse. "That was our last set. This is Every Kingdom wishing you all _goodnight_."

The fragile silence shattered.

The crowd was on their feet, applauding, laughing, and calling for more. Scorpius felt his grin broadening. He turned to his band mates to gauge their reactions. He'd never played like this before—not even close—but when he saw the look on Albus's face, he froze.

The green-eyed boy was gazing at him with a strange expression, and when he finally spoke, it wasn't to praise Scorpius's playing. Instead, he tilted his head to the side as if considering Scorpius in a new light, and asked, quite simply:

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

**X.**

It began the day before when Scorpius went to the theater with his parents. This was nothing unusual, because the Malfoys often went out of their way to make public appearances. It was true that their social standing had decreased after the most recent wizarding war, and to offset that, Draco Malfoy had taken to dragging his family out to some respected public venue or the other so they could be seen in a positive light.

Their visit to the theater was no different. The play was insufferably boring, though, and so Scorpius rushed out during the intermission and seated himself at a bench in one of London's parks. He didn't remember much about the ensuing conversation with Rose Weasley. He didn't remember much except the question she'd asked him, and how fucking stupid he'd been.

He wished he didn't remember any of it.

"Don't you want to know how my visit to the clinic went?" Rose asked.

He didn't take her up on that.

When Scorpius returned to his father's box at the theater, neither of his parents commented on his absence, or on the lingering smell of smoke that clung to his clothing. When the play came to its conclusion, his parents went off to go and mingle with the other guests, and Scorpius remained seated, reveling in the eerie emptiness and silence of the theater, which had been packed and noisy only moments before.

He'd alone been alone for a few moments when the curtain behind him rustled and someone stepped in.

"Knew I'd find you here, Scor."

Scorpius grinned and turned around. "Ava."

Ava Zabini smiled back at him and took the seat next to him. She leaned in and gave him a peck on the lips.

Scorpius rolled his eyes and leaned back. "Why on earth do you always do that?"

"It amuses me," she said.

"If someone saw us, they would get the wrong idea."

Ava grinned. "I hope they do."

He turned to face her again and studied her. Ava was beautiful; there was no denying that. Her skin was a warm, gold-tinted bronze, her eyes turned up at the corners, and her lips were full and supple. He'd once asked her what exactly she was—Black? Asian?—and she'd told him she was _everything_. He hadn't bothered to deny the statement, because it sounded true enough to him.

He reached out and took her hand. "You know, a couple years ago I would've thought that we'd be like this," he commented lightly.

Ava eyed him. "Like what?"

"This," he said again. "Holding hands and kissing."

"I know," she said, laughing. "I've been waiting for you to admit that. I apologize for crushing that particular dream of yours."

He laughed. "It's bizarre. Everyone thinks I'm the odd one for having you as a best mate and—I quote—_not getting in on that._"

Ava fluttered her eyelashes. "Would you _like_ to get in on this?"

Scorpius scowled. "That'd feel incestuous."

Ava laughed. "Moving on...the real reason I came here is because your parents are looking for you."

Scorpius glanced at his watch and groaned. "Shit. I completely forgot."

"Where is the Malfoy family heading off to next?" Ava asked from her seat, as Scorpius stood and brushed his clothes off.

"St. Mungo's—my father's considering financing a new wing or something."

Ava was quiet for a moment.

"Alright then, I'll see you," Scorpius said hurriedly.

"Wait," she called.

Scorpius glanced back. "What is it?"

"You know we should probably get married someday, right, Scor?"

Scorpius stumbled. "...What?" _  
_

"Think about it," Ava said. "It makes sense."

"I..." As absurd as it was, he considered it for a moment and realized she was right. "I suppose so," he conceded, and then left the box without another word.

_Merlin, that'd been weird. _As usual, though, Ava was right. Scorpius wasn't exactly fond of most other pureblood females around his age, and in Ava's case, it made sense to marry him, considering he was the only one that knew her secret. It was just strange that she'd spring it on him like that. In any case, they didn't have to worry about that for another few years, so he pushed the thought from his mind.

His parents were waiting for him outside, and they both seemed exasperated by the delay he'd caused.

"Took you long enough," his father muttered.

"Sorry," Scorpius said. The three of them hurried down a side-street, and as soon as they were out of view of the muggles on the main street, Scorpius's mother grasped his arm and apparated to Malfoy Manor.

"Go and change into your robes and come down here in a few minutes, Scorpius."

Scorpius nodded absentmindedly. His mother frowned. "Scorpius! Are you listening to me? We're late. Go and change!"

He took the stairs two at a time to his room and stripped out of his muggle clothes, then pulled on his robes and headed down. "Happy, Mum?" he asked, sarcastically. His mother didn't bother to respond; she reached for a pinch of floo powder and crowded Scorpius and his father into the fireplace with her.

Scorpius had zero interest in whatever in the politicking and business that his parents would be conducting at St. Mungo's, and so he managed to ditch them as soon as he got a chance. As his parents headed into the elevator, talking to the head of the hospital's board, Scorpius left, unnoticed, in search of a vending machine.

His search was unsuccessful, and instead, he found himself wandering the hospital's wards, looking for a nice place to sit and wait for his parents to finish up whatever it was they were doing. He spotted an empty office and glanced around to check that no one was in the vicinity.

"Bugger it," he muttered under his breath as he entered. He sat in the office chair and spun in circles, vaguely aware of the fact that he was acting unforgivably childish, but not in the mood to give a damn.

Scorpius didn't like hospitals, or healers. They were always running about and giving orders and expecting them to be followed without providing any reason why. _Hm._ Actually, that sounded rather appealing. Perhaps Scorpius had found his calling.

"Young man, what are you doing?"

Scorpius spun around in the chair to face the person who'd spoken, and had to crane his neck to see the man's face. The healer who'd spoken was tall, with graying hair at his temples. He stood like an auror—back straight, head held high, hands clasped in front of him. He was holding a file tightly.

"I'm spinning," Scorpius said lazily. "In your chair, presumably."

The man grimaced. "How did you get in here?"

Scorpius shrugged. "My parents are like…you know. Scoping the place out. Thinking about donating money, or something."

The man's expression brightened slightly, though he was still viewing Scorpius with a look of distaste. Scorpius didn't mind. He thought the healer's arrogant stance and condescending were fairly distasteful as well.

"Well, why not capitalize on your time at St. Mungo's?" the man asked. "I can tell you about my work here if you'd like."

Scorpius groaned internally, but simply shrugged in response.

The man's lip's curled slightly. "I'm working as a consulting healer. Patients whose cases are too complex for the average healer to diagnose have their information forwarded to me, and I attempt to make sense of it."

The man seemed rather proud of this, and seemed to expect Scorpius to be impressed.

"Cool," Scorpius deadpanned.

"I specialize in the study of _chronic inimicia_, which is essentially the unfettered division of procuronoma cells, which chokes off the blood's magiaparva count. The blood ends up being thin and watery and anemic—deprived of the nutrients that the body needs to sustain itself."

"Right…" Scorpius said.

The man frowned. "Don't you see the significance of that? It's a disease that's occurring more frequently—and they're spontaneous cases. Patients with no prior health concerns or medical history of the disease are showing up with symptoms from stage three and later—"

"Look," Scorpius said, growing irritated. "My parents are probably looking for me."

"Ah-hem," a soft voice came from the doorway.

Both Scorpius and the healer turned to look, and spoke simultaneously to greet the visitor.

"Mum," Scorpius said.

"Mrs. Malfoy," the healer said, inclining his head slightly.

Astoria Malfoy stepped into the office. "Don't mind me," she said. "Please, continue talking about your work. I find that I'm intrigued."

The healer flushed with pleasure. "The malignant cells that characterize chronic inimicia…they multiply much faster than normal ones, exploding into the bloodstream and later burrowing their way into the bone marrow and colonizing the nervous system."

"I see," his mother said, looking concerned. "And what treatment options are open to patients?"

"There are treatments that could potentially slow down the division of procuric cells by switching on their inhibitors, but they're in the developmental stages at the moment. For now, we…" The man trailed off and glanced down, as if he were ashamed.

Scorpius, against his will, was beginning to grow interested in the conversation.

"For now, you…?" he prompted.

The healer adjusted his robes. "For now all we can do is target malignant cells by trying to kill them. Unfortunately, the medications we're forced to use are unable to distinguish between healthy cells and corrupted ones. We push the patient to the edge by upping their dosages and then stave off and reel them back in…There are several cycles of treatment, so the process occurs several times."

Scorpius glanced at his mother. Her jaw was working up and down as if she was trying to say something, but couldn't find the right words.

_Well, someone had to say what everyone was thinking._

"That's seriously fucked up," Scorpius stated plainly.

"Scorpius!" his mother hissed, gripping his arm tightly.

Scorpius shrugged. "What? It's true. If that's the best these healers can do, I don't see why we should be giving them money."

The healer scowled. "This is exactly why we need money! We need to develop more humane treatments, and we haven't managed to procure a grant from the Ministry—"

"That shouldn't be a problem," Astoria said. "I'll have my husband write you a check. I want you to get to work on developing less barbaric methods of treatment."

The healer was speechless for a moment. "…I don't know how to—Ma'am—thank you!"

Scorpius's mother nodded primly and stepped over the door's threshold, with the healer following hurriedly behind her as he thanked her profusely. Scorpius smirked and reseated himself in the chair; in a perverse way, he rather liked seeing the high-and-mighty healer cowed by his mother and groveling for money.

He spun in the chair again, and then glanced around the office. His eyes fell upon the file the healer had been clutching protectively. Apparently, in his haste, the man had left it behind.

_Score._

Scorpius plucked the file off the cabinet top and opened it. "So," he said under his breath, "what poor bastard just got diagnosed with _chronic inimicia?_"

The first page of the file provided him with an answer. The patient's name was right there in bold print, and suddenly, Scorpius desperately wished he hadn't bothered to look at it at all. He heard footsteps approaching, and a shadow fell over him. Too late, he realized the healer had returned.

"What the hell are you doing?" the man barked.

Scorpius dropped the file as if it burned to touch, and the contents scattered across the floor. The man placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him out.

"Patient information is confidential," he said angrily.

Scorpius didn't respond. He was too busy thinking about how healers were going to be pushing a certain red-headed girl to the edge, and then reeling her back in, and then pushing her to the edge again.

_The edge of what?_

Dimly, Scorpius realized the man was still yelling at him. "Did you read the information in the file? Did you see the patient's name?"

"I…I…no," Scorpius said, shaking his head. "No."

And then he turned on his heel and tuned the man out, breaking out into a jog as he rushed down the hall to search for his parents, and hopefully to get the hell out of there.

All that had led him to where he was at this precise moment: standing in front of a cheering crowd with his guitar in his hands, having just played as he'd never played before. He should have been basking in the applause he was getting, or receiving praise from his band mates, but instead he was struggling to answer a five-word question, the weight of which seemed to be crushing him.

_What the fuck was that? _

It was a perfectly valid question, but Scorpius couldn't think of an adequate answer. It wasn't as if he could come right out and tell the truth and say, "I'm a thief and a liar and, incidentally, your cousin is dying," to Albus Potter, of all people.

But the fact of the matter was that Scorpius _was_ a thief and a liar and Rose Augusta Weasley really _was_ dying, and everything was screwed up and complicated because he wasn't supposed to know, but that didn't change the fact that he did.

_What the fuck was that?_

He wished that she weren't sick, but more than that, he wished he didn't fucking have to know. Fine, let her be sick—let her even die—at the moment, he didn't give him a damn. He just didn't want to know about it or hear about it or deal with it. He felt ill himself as he reached these callous realizations, but didn't want to pause and force himself to discover if they were true.

He was afraid of the answers.

He was turning seventeen in three days. He was supposed to be invincible. The generation before him had fought and died for his right to live and breathe and be free—and they'd won.

This wasn't his battle. He didn't want a concrete reminder that life was ephemeral and that he might lose it all at any given moment staring him in the face.

Scorpius couldn't say any of that, though. What Albus has asked was a simple enough query, so Scorpius decided the best way to handle it was to stare one of his best mates in the eye and lie through his teeth.

_What the fuck was that?_

He shrugged nonchalantly, not letting his grin falter.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "It's nothing."

* * *

**A/N: Hi guys! Thank you for reading! :) Please leave a quick review. **

**If anyone could perhaps suggest a better summary than the one I have now (for example, one that actually pertains to this story's plot so far, LOL) that'd be fantastic! I'll give you a shoutout and everything even if I don't use your suggestion. I really am awful at summaries.**


	4. Full Measures

**A/N:** Today was my last day of high school ever so I felt like celebrating and posting this early (even though I haven't edited it, hehe).

**XI.**

The Boy Who Lived was middle-aged and hadn't shaved in two days.

He held the post of Head Auror. He had two houses, a beautiful wife, three children (though only two would ever admit to him being their father), ever growing piles of paperwork on his desk, and an eleven-inch-long, phoenix-feather wand.

He also had a gun and a security escort that were both required to be with him when he attended high-profile Ministry meetings. He was too famous to get involved in fieldwork. After a few failed missions, he'd admitted to himself that it was hopeless to venture into dangerous situations when he already had countless enemies in the wizarding world. He was a liability. His fame and the fact that he was easily recognizable jeopardized both the operations and his fellow aurors.

Upon retiring from the field, he had become a figurehead. From then on, he was called out to the field rarely and only when it was absolutely necessary, because the world couldn't afford to lose Harry Potter. The precarious balance of power that had been established in the aftermath of the war would be disrupted if Harry were to disappear.

The Ministry was been a mess when he first joined its ranks. There were debts to be settled and reparations to be paid. Wages were overdue, and the abuses of a government that had grown too large and expansive during wartime had to be addressed. Hundreds of positions were vacant; their former occupants had left the country or lost faith in the Ministry or were dead.

There were orphans to be housed, shortages of basic magical supplies, missing people to be located, ancient wizarding homes being foreclosed, goblins demanding to be paid back their loans, hundreds injured, homes, stores and schools to be rebuilt. Hospitals had been overflowing, and many of the poor had been unable to pay their medical bills.

There were Death Eaters to be tried—many of them from powerful, wealthy families—and miles of red tape to sort through.

All this they'd faced in the aftermath of the war. Many of the issues had been solved—Hogwarts had been rebuilt and reopened, and reparations from wealthy Death Eaters were doled out to the families of victims (thus bankrupting more than a few pureblood lines, and weakening their political power). Taxes had been increased on the wealthy, and the extra revenue had been poured into infrastructure to rebuild homes and stores and restore the livelihoods of many.

The Ministry had minted more money, which had driven up inflation, but had been necessary to alleviate the financial burden of the poor who required medical attention.

Of course, the measures that the Ministry had taken in the aftermath of the war were viewed with distaste, and even abhorrence, by many. It had been a political firestorm, and Harry had been caught in the middle of it. With Kingsley Shacklebot as the new Minister of Magic, Harry had finally felt comfortable placing a measure of faith in the Ministry's ability to function, and had publicly announced his support for the reconstruction plans.

That had been an awful idea. For years after that he'd been bogged down with senseless paperwork and press conferences and the hounding of the media.

So it was with a sense of pleasure that after two straight days at the office, he read the new assignment he'd been handed down by his superiors. It was a strange case, one that he could likely get involved in without compromising the mission with the added benefit that it didn't involve the bureaucracy.

The briefing was concise. A quick one, he figured. It would be a high note to leave the office on before he went on vacation with Ginny.

_New source of dragon snuff. Product is significantly more potent than average. Was sold on streets of Hogsmeade. Locate source and close down operation. Apprehend those involved; check for involvement of larger organizations. _

Attached to the note was a small pouch. Harry opened it and let its contents spill into his palm. It contained a fine green powder. Hastily, he poured as much as he could back into the pouch. It appeared to be a sample of the dragon snuff.

A drug bust was, in all honesty, a routine case that he would've been expected to assign to one of the trainees, but Harry desperately needed a break. He wanted to head out and stretch his legs. He pocketed the note and the pouch and exited the office.

"Leaving already, Auror Potter?" his secretary, Mrs. Merriworth, asked as he walked by.

"I'll be back," Harry said dryly, and Mrs. Merriworth cast him a sympathetic smile.

He left the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and took the elevator down to the ground floor, then, apparated to Hogsmeade.

The village was bustling with activity, and Harry felt a strong pang of nostalgia for his Hogwarts days. Honeydukes and Zonkos were still open, as were The Three Broomsticks and The Hog's Head. Harry made his way towards the latter, but found himself drawing to a stop outside an entirely different building: James's flat. A month ago, he'd pulled a few strings in the Ministry to gain access to the housing records so that he could locate it. This was the first time he was seeing it. For a moment, he considered knocking on the door. What would James say if he showed up?

"Damn it," Harry muttered to himself. Searching for horcruxes had been less complicated than dealing with his eldest son. At least the former task had been straightforward, but with James, he hardly ever knew what to say.

He wondered if it was his fault, sometimes. His eldest son was quite a lot like Sirius—he'd never lost the mischievousness of youth, and at first, Harry and Ginny had written James off as a late bloomer. They'd half-believed that it didn't matter if James never grew up because what he'd excelled at—_truly_ excelled at—was Quidditch. At fifteen he'd signed a contract with Puddlemere United; it had been a promise that at the very least, he'd try out for the team upon graduation and give them first preference.

Of course, that hadn't exactly worked out.

Harry sighed. He ought to have just marched up to the door and demanded entrance. James was his _son_, for heaven's sake. But instead, he tore his gaze away and plodded on, heading for The Hog's Head.

He entered the nondescript inn, tugging his cloak about him despite the stale, summer air and headed straight for the leftmost table, where he knew the wizard he'd come looking for had set up permanent residence.

"Mundungus," Harry said, greeting the aging wizard curtly.

Mundungus Fletcher doffed his hat and gestured for Harry to sit. "Harry, m'boy. What brings you here?"

Harry had long harbored a dislike for the man, and didn't want to waste time with formalities. He dropped the pouch he'd received earlier that day onto the table and fixed Mundungus with a cold stare. "What do you know about this?" he asked.

The man opened the pouch and took a whiff, then dropped it back on the table. "I don't know nothing," he said firmly.

"Is that so?" Harry pressed.

"Look here," Mundungus said angrily, "I said I don't know nothing an' that means I don't know nothing. I may be a thief and a cheat but I'm not a liar."

Harry nearly groaned. Aside from the fact that Mundungus's impassioned defense made no bloody sense, it appeared that he'd wasted his afternoon on a lead that was a dead end.

"If this isn't your product, do you have any possible idea who might be selling this?"

"That's a lot stronger than mine, from the smell o' it," Mundungus said, a greedy look in his eyes. "Wish I knew how to make that. But I haven't been selling much this past week. Boy o' mine ran off about a week ago. Sent him out about the village inn an' he hasn't been seen since. I got others selling, but they aren't as good," he said sadly.

"Never mind that. Do you think he could be behind this?" Harry asked.

Mundungus snorted. "Lad has half a brain on a good day. On a bad day he's got a fair bit less."

"Straight answers, Mundungus. I take it that meant no?"

Mundungus rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You watch yourself, Mundungus," he cautioned. "One toe out of line and we'll take you in."

At this, the old wizard roared with laughter. "No you won't," he gasped between chortles.

They both knew Mundungus was right. He filled a niche in a market that would have otherwise been occupied by people far more dangerous and less willing to converse with law enforcement than he. But Harry didn't let that deter him when he grabbed Mundungus by the scruff of his robes and whipped his wand out. The older man stopped laughing abruptly.

"Watch yourself," Harry repeated, then released him and walked away, a slight smile on his lips. Perhaps Mundungus Fletcher couldn't help him, but Harry knew someone that was far more reliable that could.

**XII.**

Long before there was a healing clinic at the corner of Harsburry and 9th, there was a playground with a yellow swing set and a twisting, red slide. The playground had been destroyed in one of the air raids Germany had conducted on London during the Second World War.

The healing clinic had come up overnight in its stead.

In the lobby, there were pictures from the clinic's early days. There were nurses with white, starched blouses and vacant grey eyes smiling for the camera, and children seated in circles, playing with toys as the looming shadow of the photographer shielded their forms. The photos were magical; their inhabitants moved within the confines of their frames, trapped in the war.

"James," Rose said as she stepped away from the array of black-and-white photographs and sat down, "do you think they treated muggles here, too?"

Her cousin grunted in response, but she wasn't entirely sure if that meant yes or no. He was lying across the available chairs; the clinic's waiting room was entirely empty except for the two of them. She was the last patient in for the day.

It was hard for Rose to remember that it was summer outside when she was in here. The walls seemed to be drawing ever nearer, closing in on her. James's nonchalance spooked her; he had the uncanny ability to make himself feel at home just about anywhere, which Rose found incredibly unfair.

"Hey Rose," James said, startling her, "why aren't you afraid?"

She thought for a moment. "I am," she said at last, because she was.

"You don't act it," he said.

Rose coughed. "How am I supposed to act?"

James raked a hand through his hair and pulled himself up so he was sitting, rather than lounging, on the seats. "I dunno," he said. "I don't think you're supposed to be this calm, though."

She kicked her heels together. "Oh."

James stared at her curiously for a moment. "Hm," he said at last, and they lapsed back into silence.

Of course Rose was afraid. She just didn't know how to verbalize her fear—she didn't even know how to think about it. Nothing in her life so far had equipped her with the tools to confront the reality of what she was facing. Her fear didn't manifest itself through frantic thoughts or worrying, or through her speech. Rather, the fear that had gripped her when the healer had informed her of her diagnosis had become a part of her.

Much like the illness that had colonized her body, terror had taken root within her, and through her, expressed itself. It was evident in the way she held her coffee mug so tightly that she could see the whites of her knuckles, the way she scrubbed her skin raw in the shower every day, willing herself to feel clean, the way she would lie awake at night in and rub her face, only to find an unfamiliar wetness there and discover that she'd been silently crying.

"Rose?" James prompted, watching her closely. "I don't like this. You're not talking my ears off or grinning or being nearly obnoxious enough. You're not being you. Are you alright there?"

Rose shot him a wan smile and shook her head slightly to clear her head of dark thoughts. "Of course," she said.

"Good to know," James said. "I mean, it's not as if you've got some sort of deathly illness, or anything, right?"

Rose smiled. "No, it's not like that at all."

James chuckled.

"But really, James, don't worry. I'm holding up fine." As if to prove her point, she reached for the closest magazine at the table at drew it into her lap. She opened to a random page with every intent of pretending to read, but was confronted with a series of photographs.

"Five Steps to BeWitch Your Wizard with a Summer Bod," the title read, and below it were photos of ridiculously skinny, ample breasted witches in varying states of nudity. Rose blushed and tossed the magazine at James.

"This is probably more to your taste," she said quickly, feeling strangely embarrassed to have picked up such a superficial magazine.

James glanced at his lap and broke out in a grin when he realized she was joking. "I expect your literary tastes are centered more on novels written at least a hundred years back," he teased.

Rose laughed. She knew James loved to mock her for her cultured tastes. Or at least Rose _thought_ she was cultured. James often referred to her as pretentious. But what did James know? The only literature he probably read were pornos.

The door to the patient rooms opened, and none other than Nurse Francesca stepped out. She seemed tired, and looked even younger than before—closer to James's age, perhaps. "Miss Weasley," she said, her gaze falling on Rose, "we're ready for you now. If you'll please come with me." She held the door open for Rose to enter, but before Rose could even get up, James was on his feet.

"Do I know you?" James asked.

Nurse Francesca glanced at him with surprise, as if she hadn't noticed the other occupant of the room. She got over her surprise quickly when she saw James, and narrowed her eyes at him. "I should hope not," she responded, her nose at a comically high angle in the air.

Rose bit her lip, feeling uneasy. _Did these two know each other?_

But it seemed they didn't. "Oh," James said, shrugging. "I s'pose you just look like someone I know. You have one of those faces."

"What faces?" the nurse asked, sounding puzzled.

"Er, common ones, I guess."

Nurse Francesca cast him a disparaging look, which James returned with equal intensity.

Rose got to her feet feeling strangely relieved that the two didn't know each other—they were so at odds with one another, that if they had known each other, they likely wouldn't have gotten along. Rose greeted the nurse with a small smile and stepped through the door, with James hot on her heels.

"Immediate family only, Mr. Potter," the nurse said, attempting to shut the door before he could make it through.

James blocked the doorway with his arm and shook his head. "My last name's not Potter," he said. "I'm James Weasley. Pleased to meet you. I'm Rose's brother."

Nurse Francesca looked back and forth between Rose, who was struggling to contain her laughter, and James, who was looking earnestly at her.

"You're not serious, are you?" Nurse Francesca asked, incredulity written across her face. "It's common knowledge who you are. One only has to crack open a random page of _The Daily Prophet_ to see a photograph of your family."

"The papers are wrong," James insisted firmly. "I'm Rose's brother, and I'll be accompanying her today."

Nurse Francesca didn't seem fazed by his protestations. "That's ridiculous," she said calmly. "You'll have to wait here."

"I'm accompanying her," James repeated lightly, but there was a slight edge of stubbornness to his tone.

Secretly, Rose was glad that he was insisting on entering with her. She didn't feel quite up to hearing her treatment options on her own. What if they were awful? What if she didn't have James there, offering her support?

"Very well, _Mr. Potter,_" Nurse Francesca finally said, and let out an exasperated sigh.

James frowned at her insistent use of his last name. "Bint," he muttered, loud enough to be heard.

Rose gasped and kicked him hard in the shin. That was becoming quite the habit, she realized – kicking boys in the shin. First Scorpius, now James. She watched as Nurse Francesca, having heard James, stiffened, but apparently chose not to comment and turned away. Rose gripped James' shirtsleeve and held him back for a moment as the nurse stepped ahead of them in the hall.

"You can't talk to her like that!" Rose scolded.

James scoffed. "I'm paying her. I'll say what's on my mind."

Rose released him and pushed ahead. James frustrated her to no end. She knew she cut him more slack than the rest of her family was willing to, but she'd never questioned that. He'd been through quite a lot, after all. But now she was the one going through quite a lot, and it was his turn to be there for her. Wasn't that how it worked?

The three of them arrived in the cramped room that Rose had been led to the day she'd received her diagnostic results. Rose seated herself in the patient's chair without a second though. The nurse nodded at her and turned to James with an irritated look.

"_You_ can have a seat there," she said, pointing to the stool at the corner of the room. "There's a copy of The Prophet made available in every lobby." She gestured towards the magazine he held in his hand that he'd likely forgotten to put down. "Though it seems you've already found something to amuse yourself with."

James smirked and looked her in the eye. "I used to have a rather interesting fantasy about amusing myself with nurses, you know?"

Rose lurched to her feet. "James!" she gasped. Yes, the nurse was being unnecessarily cold to him, but he'd crossed a line. "He didn't mean that," Rose said quickly, turning to the nurse.

"What?" James said, tossing the magazine back to Rose and throwing his arms up in defense. "Don't look so shocked," he said, and let his gaze travel quite obviously up and down Nurse Francesca's body. He made a face. "I don't have _that_ particular fantasy anymore."

Rose wanted to hit him. In fact, she decided right then that as soon as they left the clinic, she would. She would slap him right across the face and tell him how unacceptable his behavior was. In the mean time, she had to apologize to Nurse Francesca for her cousin's lapse in humanity. She turned to the poor woman, half expecting to find her in tears.

But Nurse Francesca wasn't crying. Instead, there was an odd sort of smile on her face—one she was biting her lip to hold back. "Well, all's well that ends well. Isn't that so, Mr. Potter?"

James didn't seem to know what to make of that. "Er," he said.

Rose looked back and forth between the two of them curiously. They were looking at one another differently, all of a sudden, and Rose felt as if she'd missed something. Despite all their bickering and James's overt rudeness, Nurse Francesca was smiling, and now it seemed that James was on the verge of smiling, too.

_Surely, it couldn't be…?_

"Miss Weasley!" Healer Figgins boomed from the doorway, causing everyone in the room to jump with surprise, except for the nurse, who merely massaged her temples and let out an exasperated sigh. "Glad to have you back," the healer said, at a more reasonable volume.

Rose smiled weakly and resumed sitting. "Well, I can't honestly say I'm glad to be here."

The healer laughed loudly as if her trite joke was hilarious. Behind his shoulder, James made a twirling motion at his brow, indicating that Figgins was crazy. Rose couldn't help but agree.

"Well, let's get down to it!" the healer said. "I'm sure you're very curious as to what exactly it is that ails you. So today, I'm going to explain your illness, its causes and symptoms, and your treatment options. Understand?"

"Yes," Rose managed to choke out, though her throat had gone dry. James, seeing her distress, scraped his stool noisily across the floor so that he was close enough to hold her hand.

"Aha! And who are you, might I ask?" Healer Figgins said, turning to James.

"He's my brother," Rose said quickly.

James gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'll be paying for her treatment. If you don't mind getting on with the information you were about to share…?"

The healer cleared his throat loudly and straightened his robes. "Right. Of course. Nurse Francesca?" he said, turning to her for a moment. She handed him Rose's file. The healer flipped through it quickly.

"I'll cut to the chase," he said. "What you're suffering from is known as chronic inimicia. It's an illness that's been cropping up at high rates in the past twenty years or so. It's caused when the division of a certain kind of cell present in all creatures known as magiaparva, is restricted. Magiaparva cells can be switched on in the womb, but in most creatures, they're dormant. Only magical creatures have activated magiaparva cells in their bloodstream. Do you follow?"

Rose nodded. "So I'm ill because I have a low magiaparva cell count?" she asked.

"You're somewhat correct," the healer said. "That's one of the symptoms of your illness—the main one, actually, and the reason your magic is waning—but it's not the cause itself. The cause of your low magiaparva count is the unfettered division of procuranoma cells. These cells are distorted, mutated versions of magiaparva cells. The incubus to mutate a magiaparva cell comes from an external source."

Rose looked at him blankly.

James spoke up and voiced what she was thinking. "What in Agrippa's name are you talking about?"

Nurse Francesca looked at him crossly. "What he's saying is that something that Miss Weasley was exposed to caused some of her magiaparva cells to mutate. The mutated cells, known as procuranoma cells, divide at an alarming rate, creating millions of copies of themselves in her bloodstream. They choke off magiaparva cells and restrict their ability to divide, which weakens Rose's magical ability. Understand?"

"No," James said. "What do you mean Rose was exposed to something?"

"The prevailing theory for why the incidence rate of chronic inimicia has skyrocketed is—"

"English, please," James drawled.

The nurse frowned. "Most people think that residual dark magic from the wizarding war is the reason why chronic inimicia has become so much more common. The dark magic could possibly cause mutations in healthy magiaparva cells. Mind you, it's still exceedingly rare, but less so. Rose could have been exposed to it anywhere—but probably at Hogwarts, considering she's a student and a battle was fought there. Do you understand now?"

"I suppose," James said grudgingly.

"Wonderful explanation," Figgins said, beaming at her proudly. "Moving on—the reason for Miss Weasley's headaches is that the mutated cells are colonizing other parts of her body. The fact that she's having headaches indicates that her nervous system may soon be compromised. That is why we need to start treatment immediately. Today would be preferable. Every day lost means she's is closer to losing her magic entirely. That means that—Miss Weasley, what are you doing?"

Rose had pulled herself up from the chair. She'd known she was scared, but she hadn't known until that moment quite how desperate she was. She latched blindly onto the healer's words. She felt excitement—dangerous excitement—coiling within her. The world around her became hyper-focused and her thoughts came tumbling out before she had a chance to collect them.

"I…what? Losing my magic? I thought I was going to die. You told me I was going to die. You told me that. Was that a mistake? It's a mistake, isn't it? I'm losing my magic but I'm not going to die?"

When she quieted, a deep, painful silence settled over the room. James was holding her hand so tightly that it hurt and she felt as if her fingers were on the verge of snapping, and on his face was the same ludicrously, hopelessly hopeful expression that graced hers.

The healer didn't seem to be able to speak.

Nurse Francesca stepped forward again. "We didn't mean to mislead you, Rose," she said, addressing her by her first name for the first time.

And that was all it took, because Rose could hear the truth of it in the tone of the nurse's voice. The vibrancy of her surroundings faded and the world snapped out of focus. She lost her footing and felt as if she were falling, falling all over again as if she were eleven and on a broom for the first time—only this time there was no one there to stop her from crashing to the earth.

"I've got you," James said hoarsely as he helped her back into the chair a moment later. "I've got you, Rosie. I'm right here."

But she didn't want James there. His hands were calloused and hot and she felt uncomfortable. She wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She wanted to scream at him and the healer and at her body for failing her.

She didn't, though. She let her cousin help her up, and reseated herself in the chair.

"I apologize," she said politely, as if collapsing from fear was a routine activity that called for an apology. There was a moment of quietness before the healer proceeded.

"Would you like some water? Is there anything we can provide you with?"

Rose shook her head.

"We offer counseling at the clinic," the healer said, "to help patients deal with their situation. Unfortunately, Rose, there's no cure for chronic inimicia. Magic is your last defense against it, and once that's weakened, it starts chipping away at your immune system, making you vulnerable to all sorts of infections and viruses. And once it's compromised that, it moves on, systematically corrupting your cells. I'm sorry, Rose."

James cut in. "But you said there were treatment options," he said, anger evident in his voice. "You fucking brought us here and said we would discuss her options, not give her a death sentence," he spat.

"Calm yourself," Figgins snapped. "Of course there are treatment options. We can delay the spread of the disease and extend Rose's lifespan, but we can't stave it off forever."

"How?" James demanded, raking a hand through his hair.

The healer began to explain something about _targeted cell therapies_ and _restricting cell division_, but Rose wasn't listening. She was trying a technique she used before important exams. She leaned back in the chair and shut her eyes and breathed in and out and in and out and tried to clear her head and relax her limbs and all that nonsense—and surprisingly, it was working.

When she opened her eyes, James and Healer Figgins were still arguing, and Nurse Francesca stood to the side, watching Rose with an impassive expression. When the nurse realized Rose was watching her back, she gave Rose a slight smile—the same one she'd given James earlier.

Not a trace of pity in it, either. It was as if they were sharing a secret joke at the expense of the other occupants of the room. Rose decided then and there that despite it all, she quite liked Nurse Francesca.

Rose smoothed down her skirt and smiled back.

Then, James's fist came down hard on the countertop that was built into the wall, and Rose was jolted back into the present.

"It's called cytotoxic therapy, and it's highly respected!" the healer was yelling.

"I don't give a damn what it's called," James thundered. "I want to know why you're proposing I pay thousands of galleons so you can poison her."

Nurse Francesca spoke up. "If it's the cost that you object to, then I suppose we could—"

"Excuse me?" James hissed, his voice deadly low.

Nurse Francesca took a small step backward, her eyes widening.

"James," Rose said worriedly. "I'm sure she didn't mean to imply that you're not willing to pay."

"Shut up, Rose," James growled, his chest heaving.

Rose went pale. James had never spoken to her like that before. He'd been uncharacteristically crude and insensitive all day, especially when he'd made lewd comments to the nurse. Rose had been confused, because that was so unlike him...but suddenly, it all clicked.

_This was James._ This was James the way everyone else saw him—this was the boy they despised and trashed in the gossip columns of the Prophet. They said he had no manners, cared for no one but himself—that he was a womanizer, a drunk—

This was _that_ James. Rose was getting to see that side of him at last. She didn't want to hear him argue and act like that on her behalf. If all the adults in this room had too much pride to set their differences aside, Rose would have to manage the conversation herself.

"What does he mean that I'm going to be poisoned?" Rose asked the healer. "What's cytotoxic therapy? And how much will it cost?"

"The fact of the matter is that there's no way to kill procuranoma cells that doesn't also damage other cells. We have targeted therapies—potions that you'd have to ingest—that target cells that divide. The problem is that nearly all cells divide. Procuranoma cells do so at a much faster rate than the average cell, though, so they'll be affected by the potions the most. Other cells will, too, however."

"I see," Rose said, even though she wasn't entirely sure that she did.

"We continually up the dosage of your meds to see what you can handle without damaging the rest of your body irrevocably," the healer said. "There's no lying about it: it'll be awful. You'll experience side-effects ranging from loss of weight to cramps, headaches, extreme nausea…it'll feel like dying, Miss Weasley, because that's essentially what it is."

"I…I'm not quite sure I follow."

The healer chuckled dryly. "There's a common saying among those of us in the medical profession when it comes to chronic inimicia. We push our patients to the edge, and then we reel them back in. We're going to up your dosages until your body rejects them, and then we'll back off, wean you off them, nurse you back to health and check how much your procuranoma count has decreased. Then we can decide how many more cycles of treatment we need, or, if they've gone down drastically if we can give you a few months without treatment."

"But eventually, the level of procuranoma cells in my body will rise back up?" Rose asked, though she was sure of the answer already.

The healer nodded.

"Oh. Okay," Rose said.

"Good! I'm glad you understand, seeing as your brother here clearly doesn't. The treatment involves advanced potions making, so I'm not quite sure why he feels that it's necessary to share his opinion anyhow," the healer said in a snide tone.

"James is actually very good at potions," Rose chimed. She'd gone oddly numb upon hearing about her treatment; her emotions had been vacillating too quickly, and she was worn out. She needed to go home and make tea and then sleep for ages, but for right now, she simply didn't want to hear their arguing anymore. She'd had enough of them discussing and analyzing her down to a microscopic, cellular scale. Alright. Fine. She was dying. And apparently the only way to slow down the process of dying was to speed it up.

It didn't make sense, so she wanted to talk about something that did make sense—and to top that off, she certainly didn't like the rude, dismissive way that Healer Figgins was talking about her cousin. It was far too similar to the rude, dismissive way in which James had been talking to Healer Figgins.

James didn't seem to appreciate her jumping to his defense, though. He scowled fiercely the way he did when anyone mentioned that he was something more than what he made himself out to be—which was a womanizing drunkard, obviously.

Healer Figgins didn't seem to understand the abrupt change in the topic of the conversation either, and looked rather puzzled.

"It's true!" Rose insisted. "He was top of his class."

Nurse Francesca didn't seem to mind the change of subject, and latched onto it to further her crusade against James.

"Oh?" she said haughtily. "I expect you were accepted to a potions program when you graduated Hogwarts, then?" she asked, turning to James.

James's scowl deepened. "No, I wasn't."

"Did you even apply?" Nurse Francesca asked.

"I was rejected," James said tersely.

Oh dear, Rose thought to herself. Oh dear, this wasn't going at all the way she'd hoped it would.

"Could someone please explain to me why this conversation is relevant beyond the fact that there is _clearly_ unresolved sexual tension between the two of you?" Healer Figgins asked them.

Rose's jaw dropped. Surely, she was imagining things? Surely, Healer Figgins—stumpy Healer Figgins with his bulbous nose and holier-than-thou attitude—hadn't just said that?

James turned bright red and spluttered nonsensically. "I—no—what exactly are you implying? That'd _I'd_ be interested in _her?_" he asked, gesturing towards the nurse.

"Healer Figgins," Nurse Francesca ignored James and ventured slowly, "with all due respect, I believe you're mistaken."

The healer straightened his robes gruffly and frowned. He appeared slightly embarrassed as well, as if regretting his lapse in professionalism. "I suppose so," he said gruffly. "That concludes this visit, Miss Weasley. You're free to go. I'll see you tomorrow to begin treatment at three." He turned to James. "You'll be responsible for paying for the first installment of her treatment tomorrow."

The stupid look slipped off of James's face. "I'll have the money."

"The cost for treatment is upwards of ten thousand galleons. The first installment is considerably less, of course, but still quite hefty. Are you quite sure you'll be able to pay?"

James glanced away for a long moment before fixing Figgins with his gaze and nodding.

"I'll have the money," he repeated. "I…I'm starting a business. I sent out some tester products. Seemed like there was a lot of interest. So don't worry about me," he said. "I'll have it."

**XIII.**

"Hello, Dr. Weasley."

"Harry," Hermione said, without looking from up the vial she was examining. It changed colors each time she tapped it with her wand.

"How's the family?"

"You tell me."

Harry grinned sheepishly. "I had lunch with Ron a few hours ago at the Ministry. He's fine. It just seems like the sort of question to ask when visiting a colleague at work, though." He reached for one of the gurgling vials as he spoke, but Hermione slapped his hand away.

"Harry! I'm trying to do _actual_ work here. What are you here, anyway?"

"I've come to ask for a favor," Harry announced.

Hermione set the vial down and eyed him warily. "I know what you're going to ask—and I'm sorry Harry, I can't."

"Why not?" Harry asked, growing puzzled.

"I love Lily and Albus. You know that, Harry. I'm just so swamped with work and Ron's always at the Ministry with you…If we weren't so busy we'd have loved to take them in while you and Ginny were away. I mean it, Harry, I really do. But I don't think Ron and I can handle that at the moment."

Harry coughed. "Well, er, that's very nice of you to say, Hermione, but they're staying with the Dursleys while Ginny and I head off, so…"

Hermione had turned pink and let out a little "Oh," so Harry broke off.

He cleared his throat. "Now that we've gotten that bit of awkwardness out of the way—"

"_Harry_," she protested jokingly.

"No, no, no, it's fine. I'm glad I finally know how you feel about my children—"

"Harry Potter, don't you _dare_ insinuate that I'm not a good aunt."

"I'm only joking, Hermione," Harry said, laughing at the strange turn of their conversation. "The real reason I came here is because I needed someone to analyze this."

He withdrew the pouch of dragon snuff from his pocket and tossed it to her. She caught it, pulled apart the drawstrings, leaned down and took a sniff.

"Merlin, Harry, I know your job can be overwhelming, but I never thought I'd see the day when you'd turn to drugs…"

Harry gaped. "What? No! Hermione, how could you think that I—oh. Oh. You're joking."

The witch shook with laughter as Harry vainly attempted to defend himself. "We're even now," she said.

"I suppose," Harry said wryly, trying to conceal his amusement. "I'm not entirely sure that's how it works. But moving on—can you analyze it for me? Tell me if there's anything distinctive about it? You're the smartest witch I know, Hermione. Help me out."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I can help you." She used a thin, metal spoon to extract some of the snuff and placed it on a slide, then viewed it under an occluscope. Harry waited patiently, careful not to touch anything so as not to incur her wrath as she worked. A few minutes later, Hermione pushed the occluscope back.

"Well?" Harry prompted.

"What I can tell you," Hermione said, "is that I've never seen a sample like this before—not that I usually analyze drugs," she added hastily.

Harry grinned at his friend. "What do you mean?"

"It's my understanding that a…_product _of this nature is generally cooked up by inexperienced amateurs, because I doubt professionals would get involved in a business this dirty."

Harry nodded. "You're right—even the organized networks that deal drugs usually have amateurs working for them. Professional potions makers can easily make a decent sum of money elsewhere, I suppose."

"Right," Hermione said, "but this sample…it's near flawless," she breathed.

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Flawless?"

"There are hardly any impurities or contaminants—structurally—even on a _molecular_ level—the product is nearly pure. I don't know how they could have possibly achieved that, but…it's _brilliant_, Harry."

"Interesting," Harry said. He didn't know what to make of that. "So the person who made this was a professional?"

Hermione shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, but for some reason, I doubt they were. I'd guess the methods they used to cook this up were fairly unorthodox—nothing like the conventional potions-making they teach in professional programs."

"So I'm looking for a brilliant amateur?" Harry joked. He'd come to Hermione for answers, but she'd left him with more questions than before.

Hermione shook her head slightly, her lips pursed. "No," she said, "someone like this should have been able to apply their talents elsewhere. It makes no sense…"

"So what _am_ I looking for, Dr. Weasley?"

"Someone that's desperate," she said at last. "Very, very desperate."

* * *

**A/N:** Oooh, how do you think James got the money? Please leave a quick review! They make me feel obligated to update faster. :D

Because Rose's illness plays such an integral role in this story, I wanted to explain it properly. There will be a healthy dose of Rose/Scorpius interaction in the next chapter, and probably some cute fluff to make up for all the plot in this one. They'll finally be heading off to Hogwarts, too.


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